


Storm's Eye

by ReneAusten



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Complete, F/M, action/romance/family dysfunction, also reconciliation, loki-orchestrated chaos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 103,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReneAusten/pseuds/ReneAusten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Asgard, post-Avengers, Loki is drawn into a whirlwind of deceit and ancient blood debt surrounding one of the Queen's handmaidens. At the same time, a shadowy menace stalks Asgard, eluding capture despite Thor's best efforts. When these two quests intertwine, Loki must confront both the rift between himself and his brother, and the sacrifices he is willing to make to meet his heart's greatest need.</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="http://www.reneausten.tumblr.com/storynotes/">Story Notes</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I am Loki, of Asgard, son of none._

_For the father I knew not is dead by my own hand, and he whom I no longer claim rules the Nine Realms from the High Seat of Hlidskjalf._

_I have walked the far roads, the deep paths, the darkened trailways through Yggdrasil’s branches.  I have followed the ley lines down evil’s black throat, and traced my way back through fire and pain.  I bear the scars._

_I wield the weapons of truth and lies, honor and expedience, magic and misdirection, frost and flame.  Around me swirl the howling winds engendered by my own double nature.  I welcome them.  I inhale the winds and exhale the storm._

_Do you scoff?  Do you laugh at the storm, thinking it a little thing, soon past?_

_Do not._

_For when the screaming gale is anchored, when the wildly tangled winds join hands and caper around a calm central eye, does not their power grow?  None can stand before them._

_And who will brave the tempest, stand in its eye, and watch the winds of my chaos dance with arms thrown wide and face uplifted?_

  _Who, indeed?_

 

 

 

**Storm’s Eye**

**Part 1/20**

_Odin’s stables, and, later, the city wall. . ._

  

See a dark horse running, legs flashing, mane streaming in an endless wave across the rider’s quiet hand. He’s a tall man clad in black save for a crescent-shaped torque on his breast; he rides with easy grace, free hand resting on his thigh. Above and before him, the towers of Asgard glitter in the sun, and the green field of Ida stretches behind, slung between the mountains’ raven-haunted peaks. 

Horse and rider sweep through the city’s outer gate, past a guard who bows, fist to chest.  His companion, inside the guardhouse, looks up, startled, at the crash of hooves striking the pavement.  “Who was that?” he calls out.

“Prince Loki,” comes the reply.  “Riding hard.”

* * *

 

 

As he reined in and dismounted, Loki scanned the yard for the new stableman; the bruising ride had left Hrafn’s black shoulders streaked with lather.  But the yard remained empty, and after a few moments, Loki’s mouth tightened.  He glanced back at Hrafn, whose eyes watched him with close attention, and then walked forward through the stable’s arched entrance. The horse followed. 

Inside, silhouetted against the bright sunlight of the far doors, he saw the errant stableman, engaged in discussion with a white-cloaked maiden.  He gestured to Hrafn, and, when the horse drew near and gently nosed his shoulder, tethered him to a nearby post, his eyes still on the distant conversation. He strode toward them, a sharp rebuke on his lips for the stableman’s inattentiveness. But as he approached and their words became audible, his attention was caught by the lady.  When she turned slightly, he recognized her: one of Frigga’s handmaidens, dressed to ride in slim breeches and a short leather jerkin.  A frisson of amusement rippled through him, then; for it was clear that she was furious, though her voice remained low and pleasant and her face calm, and yet the stableman seemed oblivious to the fire in her eyes. 

“My lady, I’m responsible for the safety of those who use these mounts. Let me choose for you. . .”

 “I assure you, sir, I understand your position.  But I have used these stables long, and I ride the stallion Bruni. Please fetch him to me.”

 “Bruni is too large and strong for you, Lady.”

“He is not.  I assure you.  Again.”

“I would be flogged if you were to be injured.”

Loki’s smile broadened as he watched the stableman lift his chin and glare down his nose at her, and the lady’s lips press into a tight line.  Her voice grew more soft and yet bitingly clear.

“Sir, please, if you will bring Bruni out, I think you will find that the stallion and I have a good understanding of one another.  He has always been my chosen mount.  You’re new to your position here, and, forgive me, you know neither the horse nor myself well enough to cavalierly forbid me to ride.” 

‘I’m sure you’re an excellent rider, but that stallion. . .”

Loki cleared his throat, and was rewarded with two startled faces.  The stableman bowed deeply, at once, though not before Loki noticed the sudden stiff tension in his face.  The fear.  

_A wolf in your stable, yes?_

When the man straightened, Loki nodded toward the woman and said, “This is Lady Sigunn, handmaiden to the Queen.  If she says that she prefers the stallion, I suggest that you go and saddle the beast.  Now.”  

The command in his voice drove the man into another nervous bow, and then, without a word, he scurried down a side passage, into the depths of the stable.

Loki turned to Sigunn.  He had seen her often, serving the queen among a crowd of other maidens; he had spoken with her once or twice.  And he knew that if he had been tasked with choosing a mount for her, he would have selected a gentle palfrey. Studying her now, as she lowered her gaze and bent the neck to him, he felt a tug of annoyance. His judgements of people were rarely so inaccurate.  

When her eyes returned to his face, he said, “One has only to look at you to see that you are a rider of stallions.” 

He meant it to be an easy jest, but he saw at once that it did not strike her as such.  Her brows lowered.  

“You would be the first to say so, my lord.”

 She tilted her head to look down the passage the stableman had taken, and she murmured, “I may be their mare, but I will not choose to ride one!”

She hadn’t meant for him to hear that, Loki was certain. “Excuse me?” he asked.

When she turned back, he realized that she was still violently, desperately angry, though not with him, not even with the ignorant stableman.   He watched as she visibly took rein on her fury, swallowing it until she could raise clear eyes to his face.

“I . . .” she shook her head.  “Forgive me, my lord.  I am speaking nonsense." 

There was a moment of silence while Loki digested this obvious untruth.  A muscle in her jaw trembled unsteadily, and her eyes left him, to study the stable wall beyond his right shoulder.  

“Well,” he spread his hands, watching her eyes.  “I have often found nonsense to be a useful mode of expression.”

A smile escaped her, and her eyes lightened. As she pulled a pair of leather gloves from the belt at her waist, she said, “Perhaps I should give it more credence." 

“Consider it, at least.  Nonsense charms the ally, or disarms the enemy.” He decided to push, just a little.  “It can be a potent weapon.”  

“I expect it is, for you, my lord.” The light in her face faded. “But I don’t suppose I possess your skill in wielding it.”

“I’m flattered, Lady, that you attribute my nonsense to skill and not innate nature.”

She began drawing on the gloves. “You are a man of many skills.  Anyone who spends any time in your presence would recognize that.”  

Loki blinked, and paused, studying her more sharply.  From anyone else, in any other conversation, such a sally would have been base flattery, if not blatant flirtation.  But her mind was so obviously elsewhere, her desperation to be away from him, from here, so patent, that he knew he could not read any heat into it.  A pity, that.  He was enjoying the conversation, the easy way that she followed his thought, and he was suddenly very aware of the lovely line of her collarbone and the curve of her breast under the jerkin.  

She looked away and murmured, “As for me, I need a less ethereal weapon.”  

“Are you going into battle this morning?  Is that why you ride a stallion?” He kept his voice light.

“I am no warrior,” she said quietly, bitterly.  

Relief crossed her face then as the stableman emerged from a side passage leading a huge, blood-red horse.  “I merely seek a morning’s diversion.  Bruni will provide it.”   

Her voice caressed the horse’s name, and his ears pricked eagerly toward her. She turned back to Loki; suddenly her hands twisted awkwardly together as she peered up at him.  He could almost hear her thoughts replaying the words they had just shared, and a wince crossed her face.

“Your pardon, my lord.  I am . . .I am not really fit company for a prince of Asgard this morning.”

“No matter.  I am not really a prince of Asgard,”  Loki had taken to telling the exact truth, for the acrid amusement it afforded him: watching people of all stripes as they heard his truths, agreed with them completely in their hearts, and yet denied them flatly to his face.

She eyed him quizzically for a moment.  Then, she dropped him a quick and very inadequate curtsey and said, “As you wish.  Good day, Loki.”  

A breath of laughter was startled from his throat.  To be given-named by this slip of a girl!  Then she compounded the impertinence by pivoting away without waiting for his acknowledgement, whispering words of greeting to the giant horse, who stretched out his neck to rub his muzzle against her hair, pulling several soft waves out of their bindings.

The stableman stooped, clasping his hands to receive her knee and then tossing her up into the saddle.  She gave both he and Loki an equally cursory nod of farewell, and then, whirling the stallion about, she sent him out the far door at a brisk trot.

Loki watched her go, face thoughtful.  Then he beckoned sharply to the stableman.  “Hrafn needs attention.  He’s had a hard ride.”

“At once, my lord.” The servant bobbed his head, and Loki saw, with some exasperation, that the man’s hands were shaking.  

_I truly am a monster in my own house._

After waiting just a moment, to be certain that the man was attending properly to the horse, he turned on his heel and left the stable in a swirl of black cloak.  

For some minutes, the stable was quiet but for the muted clink of metal and rustle of leather as the stableman divested Hrafn of his tack.  Taking extra care, he shipped the stirrups and looped the reins; this was the prince’s personal gear, and he did not wish to risk a reprimand.

A subtle movement caught his eye and he spun about, feeling the bridle slip from his grasp and fumbling clumsily to catch it.  A man stood there, cloaked and hooded.  As he stepped forward the cloak parted enough for the stableman to recognize the distinctive armor of the Allfather’s bodyguard.  Swallowing nervously, he bowed and asked, “How may I serve you, sir?”

“The lady who rode out just now. . .”

“Lady Sigunn?”

The voice sharpened. “You know her name?”

“The prince told me.”

The figure before him went utterly still for a moment.  Then the voice asked softly, “The prince?”

“Prince Loki, sir.”

A longer silence.  “She was here with him?"

“They were speaking together.” 

“He went with her?”

“Oh, no, sir.  She rode out alone.”

“I see.  Where does she ride this morning?" 

The stableman’s vague disquiet was growing.  Reluctantly he answered, “I know not, sir.  She did not say.”

“But she was alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without another word, the cloaked figure turned and strode out the door.  The stableman stood there, with the prince’s tack bundled in his arms, staring uneasily after him.  In the air there was a faint scent of stale ashes and distant smoke.

 

* * *

 

 

Beyond the city gates lay the broad valley of Ida, carpeted with a swath of waving grass and green reeds.  A paved road snaked its way along the path of a meandering stream, bridged here and there with stone arches.  

As they left the city behind, Bruni’s strides lengthened toward the open path before him.  One ear twitched back, waiting.  Sigunn smiled and whispered, “ _Stikla_ , Bruni.  Run.”

Like a thrown spear the red stallion leaped into the green, and Sigunn stretched herself along his neck.  She opened her eyes wide, welcoming the sting of the cold air on her face, for then she could pretend that the tears wetting her cheeks were caused only by the wind of Bruni’s swift passage.

In the lee shadow of the city wall, a man watched her, until she was a tiny, fleeing mote of dust on the far edge of vision.  Steps sounded behind him, and a royal bodyguard joined him, cloak thrown back from his shoulders now.  The first man ignored him, his eyes fixed on the distant end of the valley.

Finally, unable to bear the oppressive silence, the bodyguard muttered, “She came this way, then.”

“Ten minutes ago.”

Slowly, the older man turned to the younger, his voice mild.  “And how is it, my son, that you were not with her?”

The guard was not deceived by the gentle tone.  His shoulders tightened and his voice flattened as he said, “I cannot dog her steps every moment, Father!  And she is making extraordinary efforts to avoid me.  As it was, I only missed her by a few minutes. 

“A few minutes, only? A mere trifle!”  The guard scowled.  The older man’s eyes grew colder still.  “But let me assure you, boy, that soon these few minutes, here and there, will add up into disaster. She received the message from her father this morning.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

The older man’s lips twisted. “I am deep in her father’s counsel.”

The guard looked away, jaw tight.  “Of course.  How could I forget?”

“You must find a way to have private speech with her.”

“She will not speak with me.” A sneer marred the young man’s face.  “She will speak with Prince Loki, but not speak with me." 

The older man raised a brow.  “You will find a way.” 

“Will I?”  The guard’s voice rose.  “And how will I?  She slips through the palace like a ghost, and she is never alone, except in her rooms or on that cursed stallion.  Would you have me hamstring the horse, or break down the doors of her bedchamber?”

“I would have you do what is necessary!  You will find a way to see her and you will. . .force the issue.”

The guard leaned closer, glaring into his father’s face.  “She will never agree. Not now.  Your interference has seen to that.”  

There was a ringing slap as his father struck him, hard, across the cheekbone.  In the breathless silence that followed, the older man hissed, “And what sort of mewling pup are you, that you require her consent before you act?”

The guard raised a hand, a sheen of hot red filming his eyes, but the older man shook his head and his narrowed eyes held his son’s gaze until slowly, reluctantly, his arm lowered.

“That’s right.  Don’t be any more of a fool today.”

He leaned forward, lifting his own hand, a deformed hand, the fingers clenched and warped into a permanent claw.  The son shied away from it, but his father reached out and slid the twisted hand around the younger man’s neck, holding him.  It was not a kindly gesture.

“Tonight, during the feasting, find her and bring her to me.  I will reason with her.”

He looked away then, back down the length of the valley.  His voice dropped to a guttural whisper as he said, “We will secure her, Theoric.  We must.  And then she will yield up the fire.”

There was a long pause.  Then, slowly, the old man said, “Now tell me: what is this about Prince Loki?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the service of a lady, a feast is disrupted by Loki-orchestrated chaos.

_Storm’s Eye_

_Part 2/20_

  

_The Feast Hall, that night_

 

Long tables, lined with gilded benches and attentive servants, ringed the Hall, where shouts and laughter all but drowned the musicians’ best efforts from their dais in the furthest corner.  The longfire burned in its brazen trough along the center of the floor; in the large open space around it, couples wove the intricate patterns of the _dansleikr,_ or stalked one another in the ages-old interplay of hunter and quarry, though who was the seeker and who the sought remained an endlessly shifting question.

 The royal table occupied a separate dais, stretching the length of the Hall’s northern wall.  Odin himself sat at the center, and his presence explained the heightened formality and exuberance of the feastgoers. Beside him, Frigga’s chair was empty; she was out on the floor, moving through the _dansleikr_ with several of her maidens.  Odin watched her, for a moment, letting his eye linger on her laughing face, and allowing a fleeting smile to cross his own.  Then, as he looked away, his eye caught on the chair to the left of Frigga’s, unused though a place was set before it, as always.  The chair which was ever empty, which had sat empty for many, many long months of days.  Loki’s chair.

Almost reluctantly, he looked for his younger son, and found him, where he was always to be found on the rare occasions now when he attended the Feast, deep in the shadowed corner below the dais, masked by one of the Hall’s massive pillars.  There he sat, gracefully sprawled, bracing his chin with one hand as he studied the braided lines of the dance.  Always placing himself in a position of strategic strength, always watching, with a ceaseless vigilance that pained the Allfather’s heart.  For what had happened in the trackless pathways where Loki had walked, what had marked him so deeply? None knew. Loki did not speak of it.

He might have spoken, Odin suspected, in those first hours after Thor had returned from Midgard bearing Loki under arms.  If he had been less than what he was, a prince and a son of Odin, perhaps some mercy could have been granted, some time given, some space allowed for the balm of confession and absolution.  But Loki’s crimes had demanded instant justice: retribution and punishment carried out before the eyes of all Asgard. As king, Odin had been allowed no other choice.  As father, his heart grieved endlessly.

And now Loki was silent.  Though justice had run its course, and Loki had made atonement, there were no words between Odin and his younger son.  

Loki was aware of Odin’s searching eye. He ignored it, his hooded gaze outward, regarding the most diminutive of Frigga’s maidens.

He had scarcely recognized her, when the queen and her company had entered the Hall.  Gowned in palest silver, a color so insipid that it disappeared among the glittering gold and brilliant jewel-toned garments of the other guests, with her bright hair pulled ruthlessly back into a simple plaited knot at the nape of her neck, Sigunn slipped through the crowd like a drop of mercury on a pebbled beach.  At first, Loki had felt only disappointment; where was the fiery maiden of the stables? But now, as he studied her, he wondered if that reaction, that easy dismissal, was not in fact the very response that this woman was seeking.  For if one took the trouble to focus on her, it became clear that she was playing some sort of deep game.  Always she moved on the edges of groups, never allowing herself to be drawn into a conversation that would trap her in one place, endlessly circulating through the Hall, never alone, but never a part. There was tension in the set of her shoulders, and she did not join in the dancing.

  _She was not afraid of me, this morning._

  _Because she is the only soul in Asgard who has not heard the wondrous Tale of Loki’s Origins?  Unlikely.  Laughably so._

  _Because she was filled with rage and there was no room in her heart for other emotion?  Possibly._

  _Because she does not fear the jotun?_

He ran the edge of his thumb along his lower lip, smiling briefly as he watched her neatly avoid an intoxicated courtling stumbling through the dance steps.

  _Interesting._

He would seek her out, he decided, and discover what her conversation was like when she wasn’t distracted by incandescent fury.  He wondered what he might need to do in order to secure her full attention. He was rather looking forward to the challenge.

In one easy motion he was out of his chair, striding around the pillar, just as Thor approached from the other side, bent on finding him.

Thor stopped short, his forward motion sharply checked by Loki’s sudden appearance.  For a moment the two men confronted one another, the light and the dark, both tall and formidable.  Then, so slowly that it was excruciating, Loki inclined his head, though his gaze never left Thor’s face.

Thor frowned.  “Loki, do not bend the neck to me.”

Loki’s eyes widened in mock sincerity. “I pay the homage due you, O Prince.”

“You owe me no homage! You. . .” Thor halted abruptly, huffed out a breath.  “I did not come this way to spar with you, brother.”

“No? My mistake, then.”

“Will you not eat with us?  At the table?”  Thor gestured toward the royal dais.

Loki glanced up toward the ceiling, pursing his lips thoughtfully.  “Dine at Odin’s table?” He lowered his eyes, and Thor almost recoiled from the raw bitterness contained in them.  “No,” he said, “I will not.”

“It would mean a great deal to Mother.”

Loki looked away, and for a tiny moment Thor saw grief swimming in his brother’s green eyes, saw the face relax into the youthful planes of the boy he’d been.  He wanted to gather that moment up like a dying ember, cradle it in his two hands, nurse it back into full flame.

“No doubt,” Loki murmured.

“Come then.” Thor reached up toward Loki’s shoulder, meaning to rest his hand against his brother’s neck. But a mask of indifference hardened Loki’s features into icy, sculpted angles.  Thor’s hand curled into a fist, and then dropped back to his side.

“You’ll have to pardon me, Odinson.  I have . . .another engagement.”

A muscle in Thor’s jaw flexed.  “Stop calling me that.”

Loki studied him closely, but Thor could read nothing in his face.  Finally Loki said, “Your name is your own.”

“It is your name, too!”

Both of Loki’s brows rose derisively.  “No, I don’t believe so.  Your mistake, this time.”

“Stop this.  Just stop.” Thor’s shoulders slumped slightly.

“You dislike this conversation?”

“Yes!  I mean, no. . .”

Loki smiled, though there was no warmth in it.  “So be it,” he said, and with another swift bow he left Thor standing there.

As he walked away he could feel Thor’s eyes on his back. At the bottom of a deep well in the quiet corner of his heart, a voice was crying out in protest, but Loki had stopped listening to that voice long ago.

For several breaths Thor stood with his arms crossed over his chest, mastering the anger and sorrow that inevitably resulted from these skirmishes.  How easily Loki wielded words, his quicksilver mind and facile tongue making any conversation a battle to gain a momentary advantage, or even to keep pace, never mind to prevail.  Thor knew well his own folly in continuing to pursue his brother, yet he also knew he would not stop. For in every encounter, no matter how cold or poisonous, there was a flash, a tiny instant, when the brother he had known and loved all his life would appear.  And so familiar were those glimpses, Thor was certain that the brother he remembered still existed. 

He looked up then, catching his reflection in the mirror-bright polish of the pillar’s convex surface.  A somber face stared back at him, atop a powerful body clad in dark armor, its only real color the scarlet cloak suspended from his shoulders.  Suddenly, he frowned, his thoughts arrested.  Spinning, he stared out into the Hall, scanning the masses of people until he found his brother’s form.  As always, a space cleared itself around him, as those who openly feared him shifted nervously out of his path, and those who disguised their unease nevertheless found reasons to slide away.  Thor’s mouth tightened as he watched this; he resented it on his brother’s behalf, though he was no longer certain that Loki paid it any mind at all.  He leaned forward, waiting for the crowd to part and for the dark figure to be more clearly revealed.  As Loki paused beside one of the tables, Thor’s frown deepened at what he saw: his brother, garbed in black.  All in black.  How had he not noticed this before?

A movement in the reflection caused him to turn, and then greet with an abstracted nod the warrior maiden Sif, dressed herself this night in a glowing red gown and bronze-trimmed cloak instead of her usual armor.  

“When did he stop wearing the green?” he asked aloud.

Sif, joining him, looked up in confusion. “What? Who?”

“Loki.” Thor gestured sharply across the room.  “He’s not wearing the green. Look at him.”

Sif squinted, catching a last glimpse before Loki’s form disappeared behind a group of boasting warriors.  “Loki has always favored black.”

“Never without the green.  Think back.  Do you remember?”

She frowned.  “He looked as usual when. . .when you brought him back.”

“And after the. . .” Thor felt the word choking him but he pushed it out, “. . .the punishment, when he was reinstated, he wore his customary armor then.”

“Yes, I think so.  Surely we would have noticed if he had not.”

“But, when did he stop? When did he start wearing only black?”

Sif shook her head.  “I’m sorry, Thor.  I don’t know.  When I think now, it seems like it’s been some time.”

Thor thumped his fist against the pillar.  “What does it mean?  What is in his mind?” His voice lowered.  “It is a further denial of himself.  Of us.”

Sif hesitated, and then said slowly, “I don’t think it is possible to know what is in his mind.”

“No! Do not speak so.  To say such things is to surrender him, to admit that he has become an unconquerable fortress. And he has not!”

“Perhaps.” Sif’s face was doubtful.

Thor thumped the pillar again.

“I need some air.” He looked down at her.  “You?”

She studied him, obviously gauging whether his need for solitude was greater than his desire for companionship.

He smiled reluctantly.  “Truly.”

“All right, then,” she said, pulling her cloak over her shoulders.  “Air, it is.”

 

* * *

 

 

Loki passed through a gap between two tables, and paused, his eyes searching for a flash of pale silver.  A young man sat there, on the end of one bench, leaning forward with his forearms across his thighs, face also intent on the throng.  He glanced up as Loki stopped beside him, a sharp, marked movement that drew Loki’s eye. The young man swiftly averted his face, staring back toward the crowd.  But his shoulders were stiff with awareness of Loki’s presence, and it did not seem to be the usual fear of the monster.  There was an angry air about him.  After a moment, he stood, and wandered away to lean against a pillar, next to an older man so like him in face and body that he must be kindred, a father or uncle, perhaps.  Both of them looked over at Loki, and then just as quickly away.

Curious, now, Loki appropriated a cup of wine from a passing servant’s tray, and used the act of drinking it to study the pair of them.  Well-dressed, but not extravagantly so. The boy’s cloak was secured with some sort of insignia-brooch, impossible to interpret at this distance.  When the old man lifted his own cup, Loki saw that his hand was twisted and deformed, a rare defect in a nobleman. Intensely serious, they were, scanning the room as if it were a battleground.  And oh so careful not to glance his way.  They peered out into the crowd, their eyes moving in unison, and, after a short while, Loki found the target of their singleminded focus.

 _She has admirers_.

When Sigunn appeared, weaving through the crowded Hall, they stared at her, the both of them, with the hungry ferocity of chained hounds within scent and sight but not reach of a fresh chunk of meat.  

Sigunn did not return their gaze, but almost at once, she slipped behind a large knot of people, out of the line of sight.  The two exchanged a glance, and then, with careful nonchalance, they parted, the young man to linger near the musicians’ dais, the older to an open seat at a table further up the floor.  Once again, both of them, setting up watch.

Loki liked it little.  Sigunn’s skillful maneuvering, which had earlier seemed like game-playing, now had all the appearance of a clever _hreinn_ avoiding the baying wolves, and he found that he did not stomach well the thought of her as prey.

With a flourish, the musicians ended their song, and the pattern of the dance in the center of the floor dissolved as partners and groups broke apart, laughing and applauding.  Frigga saluted the musicians with a polite nod, and then made her way toward Odin’s table, her maidens trailing her.  From across the room, Sigunn began threading through the dancers toward the queen, to attend her. With a swift movement, the young man abandoned his post.  The old man stood, and they both set a course converging on the royal dais. 

Clearly they were done with merely stalking: they meant to trap their quarry in a position where she could not elude them, where she had no freedom of movement because of her duty to the queen.  Sigunn saw them as she approached; her steps faltered for a moment.  Loki watched her set her lips in a firm line and square her shoulders, and he decided then that he was not of a mind to concede the hunt.

 

* * *

 

“My queen?” 

Frigga turned to see a young man bowing deeply, fist to chest.  When he straightened, she smiled in greeting, not quite hiding her puzzlement at being approached so boldly. 

“Forgive me, your majesty.  I come to beg a favor of you.”

“I see. And you are?”

“Theoric Gyrdson, of the House of Halfdan.  My father is a gardarlord in the Southern Marches.”

Frigga glanced at the insignia on his shoulder: the stylized hawk of Odin’s bodyguard. 

“Ah.  And the House of Odin is grateful for his service, and yours.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

“The favor you would ask of me?”

The young man smiled, his eyes sliding past the queen’s face to flare triumphantly at Sigunn as she slipped into her place beside the queen.  

“I seek the company of one of your maidens.”

The maidens glanced at one another, in a flurry of dimpled smiles and demurely lowered eyes.  Sigunn’s face was stony; she raised her chin warningly. 

Ignoring her, the young man continued, “If you would give her leave, I would dance with Lady Sigunn.”

Frigga eyed him amusedly, and then turned to Sigunn.  “And what is your wish, my dear?”

“I would wish to attend you, as is my duty, your majesty.”

“Your devotion does you credit, but this is a night for frivolity, as well as duty.  And I have many attendants.  You may dance with this young man, Sigunn, if you like.”

Theoric extended his arm.  She laid her hand on it, her face cold and still, though a muscle moved tightly under the skin of her cheek. As they took their places in the pattern that was forming, suddenly she looked beyond him, and her expression changed in a way that Theoric could not read.  He turned his head, to see the cause. 

A tall man, in black armor.  The dark prince.

Red fury glazed his eyes for a moment, and he said, loudly, “We leave for the south in three days." 

Sigunn’s eyes returned to him, her voice low and even as she replied, “I wish you a fine journey.”

“You should wish that for yourself, as well.”

“I make no journey, Theoric.  I will stay in Asgard.”

“You will do as your father commands!”

She raised a hand to her breast, spreading her fingers over her heart.  Her eyes narrowed as she studied his face, and said, slowly, “How do you know what he commands?” 

She held Theoric’s gaze until he answered, “My father. . .”

“Oh, yes, your father.  Your father and mine!”  Her voice thickened, and cracked.  “What is it that is between them? Why do they persist in this? Why do you? There is more to it than a long-ago pledge that should have been broken in childhood.  It is the fire. . .it must be! Theoric, will you not tell me?”

For a moment, Theoric’s face softened.  Then, with a red flash, his eyes shifted, and he made no answer.  On their dais, the musicians lifted the instruments.  The dance was beginning.

 

* * *

 

It was the _leid,_ a dance that was also a journey and a path, which always ended with the couples on the opposite side of the floor from where they’d begun.

And so, when he saw the old man position himself at the far corner of the floor, arms crossed over his chest, Loki smiled humorlessly.  The young man’s coup in separating her from the queen and the pattern of the dance itself would deliver Sigunn up to him: the elusive hart run to ground, the lead hunter squaring up for the kill.  In all the Nine Realms, no matter the species, the techniques of the hunt were always the same. 

He had never been interested in the hunt; he saw no sport in it.  Loki preferred other games.

His eyes swept the room, searching out the pieces he would need.  The tempo of the music; a servant bearing an especially large tray; the couples dancing on Sigunn’s either side. . .

 _Yes._    

His amusement deepened as he marked the progress of the dance, and the old man’s position there in the corner.  He slipped into a triangular space between one of the pillars and the south wall, hidden from view by a group of three noblemen broad of girth and rich in years.  

From the brimming cup of power held always at ready deep within himself, he poured out a tiny draught, just enough to fill his open hand, not nearly enough to attract the attention of the Allfather.  There was a slight blurring, and then, on his curved palm, a small, furred shape appeared: a black squirrel.  It sat for a moment, tilting its head askew to regard Loki with one bright eye; Loki raised a brow.  Swiftly, he bent down.  When he stood again, his hand was empty.  He walked forward, along the edge of the floor, eyes intent.

A little dark shape appeared under one of the nearest tables; avoiding booted feet, it dodged and scuttled its way along the table’s length.  As it reached the end, it paused, under the shelter of the table’s shadow, at the very edge of discovery, and looked back toward Loki.  Loki’s eyes shifted, toward a tall woman, elegantly attired in layers of trailing sapphire, dancing with self-conscious stateliness.  Then he lifted one hand, and flicked a finger directly at her.  The squirrel scurried forward and disappeared among the dancers.

He glanced at Sigunn; two more turns and the trap would be sprung. As her hand touched her partner’s, and she circled around him, Loki saw her eyes fasten on the old man, waiting to escort her off the floor.  Her face tensed; her eyes flickered to the side, searching for escape.  It looked, almost, like fear. 

And then several things happened at once.  

With a hideous, high-pitched shriek, the sapphire-gowned woman toppled backward toward her partner, arms flailing; he reacted instinctively, leaning forward to catch her, and tripped over the train of her gown, which inexplicably rose up and tangled itself around his feet. He fell to one knee. 

The couple behind them swerved awkwardly to avoid a collision, into the path of the tray-bearing servant.  With admirable self-possession, he swung the tray to the side just far enough to avoid striking them with it, but, seemingly of its own volition, the tray flipped upward, showering the stumbling dancers with sweet mead and red wine.  The wine cups cascaded onto the floor, rolling in every direction.  One of them, bouncing wildly, changed direction in mid-bounce, paused briefly in the air and then shot sideways and skittered directly under the booted foot of Sigunn’s dancing partner.

His foot rolled. He stumbled heavily backwards, releasing his grasp on Sigunn’s hand.  She backed away. The old man, after a shocked moment, came striding forward, reaching out to take her arm, but suddenly his way was blocked by a tall, black-cloaked back.  

Sigunn found herself looking up at the face of Prince Loki.  Behind her, the sapphire-gowned woman was shouting hysterically, “A creature, I tell you!  Some . . .creature ran over my foot!”

Loki inclined his head in greeting. “Lady Sigunn.”

There was a wicked gleam in his eye and a tiny upward curl at the edge of his mouth. Sigunn stared at him for a moment.  She glanced back at the chaos, and then, slowly, she smiled, the first genuine smile that Loki had seen all evening.  Deliberately, she bent the neck, and, looking up, she said, “Good evening, Loki." 

He tilted his head toward the massive arch that led out onto the Hall’s portico, and asked, “Will you walk with me?”

He held out his hand.  

The mischievous glint in his eye hardened into something more dark and speculative.  For, with the exception of his family, no one in Asgard ever ventured to touch him, as if they feared the burn of frost, even through layers of metal and leather.  To Sigunn, he was offering the unclothed skin of his open palm.

When she laid her hand in his without hesitation, he knew that his third supposition had been correct.

_She does not fear the jotun._

_So now I might ask, why not?_

Theoric had regained his feet.  His face darkened as he saw Sigunn give her hand to the black prince.

He strode forward.  “She was dancing with me.”

Loki turned to regard him, his eyes cold as starless space.  He waited, his face expressionless, until finally, as if the words were heavy, weighted chains, Theoric continued, “. . .my lord.”

“She was.” Loki said. “But, I believe the dance is concluded.”

Against his will, Theoric looked back over his shoulder.  Mead-spattered dancers struggled to untangle themselves, wine pooled into red-tinted puddles, three servants frantically pursued scattered cups, and the musicians’ instruments were emitting a series of cringe-inducing discordant tones as the players craned their necks to see what was happening. 

When he turned back, it was to meet the cold eyes of his father.  Sigunn was gone.

Theoric’s face contorted, his jaw and neck forced sideways, his eyes filming red.

“I will have her!” he rasped, his voice a guttural, harsh whisper.

His father turned to him sharply.  “Have a care!  Do not reveal yourself here!”  

For a long moment, Theoric stood frozen.  Then his face smoothed out into its usual planes, though his eyes remained hot and angry.

“She called him ‘Loki’,” he said.  “Not ‘prince’, not ‘my lord’!  She used his name.”

“I heard. There is more between them than merely one conversation in the stables.”  

“A disgraced, traitorous. . .”

“Be still.  He is nothing.  If he interferes, our. . .ally. . .will deal with him.” He paused, and then said, “We must move quickly, now.  Her father’s stratagems are too subtle. We must take her whether she will come willingly or not.”

“What of the fire?”

“She would not dare.” His lips twisted.  “She hasn’t the courage.”

 

* * *

 

As they passed through the archway, Loki paused.

“One moment,” he said to Sigunn, and turned back, scanning the disordered Hall until his eyes found their mark: at the nearest end of the longfire, a tiny black form crouched under the shelter of the trough’s brazen lip. 

Murmuring “Valiantly done _, Rati_ ,”, he extended his hand, palm open, and then, with a liquid, twisting motion, closed it into a fist.  The little creature wavered, and disappeared, as if it had never been.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle with a shadow, and a night ride that ends badly.

 

 

Storm’s Eye 

Part 3/20

 

_The Palace of Asgard, inside and out, and the field of Ida_

 

 

 

“That is twice today you have aided me,” Sigunn said.

“I confess, I’ve been lying in wait hoping for the chance to be of service.” Loki’s voice was dry, but his eyes glinted at her.

She laughed.  “How kind of you.”

“Kindness is very nearly my most defining attribute.”

“Of course it is.”  Her eyes danced.  “It is the first stave in all your songs.  ‘Prince Loki the Kindhearted, bane of impertinent stablemen’.”

“And foiler of stalkers.” Though he spoke lightly, his gaze measured her, gauging her response.

The laughter drained from her face.  She nodded, and her eyes flickered downward. For a moment they walked in silence, along the portico, with Asgard’s gleaming towers spread before them.  Loki waited, but she did not speak, and he felt a cold breeze of disappointment feather its way along his shoulders.

_Though why should she tell me of her troubles, when she has spent hardly ten minutes altogether in my company?_

 “I haven’t heard those songs,” he said at last, as if the silence hadn’t happened.

With discernible effort, she summoned a smile.  “That’s a pity.  They are marvelous, heroic, full of epic deeds.”

“Undoubtedly,” he murmured, a sour rancor rising in his throat.  

_My songs.  Oh yes, the Sagas of the Muzzled Liesmith, the Foul Traitor, the Chained Trickster!  Truly epic, my lady._

When he glanced back at her, he found her eyes contemplating him with something that appeared suspiciously like compassion.  More sharply than he intended, he asked, “And what stories do your songs tell?”

“Ah.”  To his surprise, the question bothered her. Her lips tightened. After a long pause, she answered, her voice wry and unhappy, “I suppose they sing of ‘Gentle Sigunn’.” 

“That does not please you?”

“I am not what people see.”

“Are any of us?”

She smiled again.  “You are a philosopher, my lord.”

He raised a brow at her.

The smile broadened.  “Loki.”  And then she continued, “But of course, you have always been a man of words and thoughts, as well as deeds.”

He halted his steps, prompting her to turn toward him.  His eyes darkened as he said, “Do you know, Lady Sigunn, I am beset by the feeling that you are far better acquainted with me than I am with you.  Is this possible?”

She hesitated, for a long moment.  He straightened his bearing and lifted his chin, and gazed down at her under hooded eyelids, his mouth thinning. 

_Tell me._

Finally, she said slowly, as if she knew it was an answer he did not necessarily wish to hear, “I am handmaiden to the queen.  I wait upon the royal family.  They did. . .and do. . .speak of you. Often.”  

He resumed walking.  As she fell into step beside him, he said, staring straight ahead,  “My apologies.  How tiresome for you.”

She shook her head. “I do not find it so.”

There it was once more: a bald statement that must be taken as plain fact because of the way it was said, and yet, he thought, his mood lifting again, how enjoyable it would be to make more of it. He slanted a glance down at her face, studying the shadow of her downcast lashes on her cheek, the supple sweep of her neck and shoulders.  

They had reached the end of the portico.  From its vantage point, the rampart of the palace dropped in sheer magnificence down to the gardens at its foot.  The glow of Asgard, broken only here and there with shadows, stretched out to meet the long expanse of the city's wall, illuminated at night so that it gleamed like moonlight made solid.  Beyond it, the field of Ida was a rumpled blanket of soft darkness, its winding stream reflecting the stars.

Loki turned to Sigunn, his eyes frankly assessing, until finally she asked, “Yes?”

_You are not what people see.  What are you, then?  Someone’s elusive prey? A demure handmaiden? Or a rider of stallions?_

“Do you observe all the proprieties, my lady?”

A snort of laughter escaped her, quickly stifled as she arranged her features into an expression of deep gravity.  “The proprieties?  Well. . . that would depend on the proprieties to which you refer.”

“I refer to the proprieties that govern the behavior of the Queen’s maidens.  Specifically, the fact that what I am about to propose would certainly raise eyebrows in the court.  Do you defy them?”

“Perhaps. What do you propose?”

He pointed beyond the wall, toward the welcoming darkness.

“A night ride.”

He could see at once that she was mightily tempted.  Her eyes left his face, to study the expanse of star-lighted meadows.  The sky was so brilliant that the peaks beyond were etched against it like a cut-paper silhouette, and the whole night pulsed with purpose and possibility.

She dragged her eyes back to meet his, which were alight with mischief. 

“That’s a shocking suggestion, my lord Loki.  The ladies of the court would indeed be scandalized.”

Loki leaned forward. “Oh, yes.  A Queen’s maiden does not consort with a man, in the darkness, unattended.”

“But I will ride with you. . .”

“Will you?”

“. . .because we will not be unattended.”

He straightened, looking down at her with a frown.  “Really?  Who will accompany us?”

“Bruni, and. . .” He could see her mentally scanning through all the nameplates on the stable stalls, and striking no gold.  “. . .your horse.”

He laughed.  “Hrafn?”

“Even he.”

“And they are sufficient attendants for a Queen’s maiden?”

“Certainly.  If you insult me, Bruni will defend my honor.”  Her eyes sparkled at him.

He raised both hands, mockingly.  “A notable threat. Enough to assure any maiden’s virtue.”

_Except that it isn’t.  As you well know.  But it seems, as you do not fear me, you do not fear the opinions of others._

He extended a hand.  “Shall we go?”

She reached out for it, and then stopped abruptly, an expression of genuine disappointment replacing the anticipation in her face. She looked down at herself and then held out her silver skirt.  “Even I am not such an accomplished rider that I would attempt it in a gown.”

He cocked his head to one side.  

“Allow me,” he said.  “Surely Bruni will not object.”

Slowly, his gaze slid down from her face, down her body, all the way down.  He paced around her, his eyes gliding over every curve and line, until he had completed the circle and his eyes returned to her face.  Her cheeks were mantled with heat, and she raised her chin at him.

He gave her a knowing grin, which faded as he looked inward for a moment, gathering himself, assessing the amount of power he would need, much more than he had used just now in the Feast Hall.  He knew he’d have to cut this very fine.  He could feel the chains, tightening their envenomed links around him as he flexed his magic, shaped it into the proper form, and released it over Sigunn’s head.

He staggered backward a step, knives of fire and ice stabbing through his skull; he grasped the portico’s railing to steady himself.  He hadn’t cut it quite fine enough.

A golden glow settled around Sigunn’s body, and, as it dissipated, she found herself attired in riding clothes: breeches, jerkin, cloak, and boots, all fitting so perfectly that she found their touch on her skin disconcertingly intimate.

She looked up to see Loki leaning against the balustrade, the usually-graceful lines of his body awkward and pained.  Her astonished smile crumbled.  With a wordless exclamation she stepped forward, hand outstretched, but before she could touch him, he straightened, and regarded her with such forbidding arrogance that she stopped in mid-stride, and let her hand drop.

“Are. . .are you well?” she asked.

“Perfectly.”  He indicated her transformed clothing with a wave of his hand.  “Now it’s three times I have aided you.  Your debt to me is growing.”

“So it is.” Her eyes were suddenly troubled, and a frown appeared between her brows.

He held out his hand once more.  “Let’s ride.”

 

* * *

 

Along a dimly lit hallway, its passages echoing with the music and laughter from the Feast Hall far above, a man’s figure stumbled, occasionally pausing to bring both hands to his head, hunching over in an attitude of wracking pain.  As he reached the hall’s end, a glowing lamp set in a high niche threw its light over him, causing him to flinch away and grimace angrily, and also revealing his face; it was Theoric Gyrdson.

A minor access door opened out from under the lamp’s niche; unbolting it with fumbling hands, Theoric lurched out into a darkened, quiet garden enclosed within a high wall. He flung himself against the trunk of an aged oak, gnarled branches dripping with gray moss and mistletoe. For many minutes he rested there; chest heaving with effort.  Finally, he spoke, his voice a pained rasp.

“You must leave me. Just for a time. Your anger pains me. I must recover my strength.”

Silence.

Then, a dreadful, muted sound of skin parting and flesh tearing. Theoric’s body curled in on itself, and his lips gaped in a voiceless scream.

He fell heavily, and yet a shadow remained, leaning against the tree.  

 

* * *

 

“. . .and so then he said, the rogue, ‘I reckon I will have to disarm you’, and I said, ‘You’re welcome to try, for all the good it will do you’.”  Sif finished her tale with a tiny smile on her lips.

Thor chuckled.  “I suspect it did him no good at all.”  He rested his forearms along the top of the balcony wall and watched Asgard glimmer around him.

“None.”

“Well, if you will choose to accompany Fandral as he roams the taverns of Nidavellir, you’ll have to resign yourself to those kinds of encounters. . .”  Thor’s voice trailed away as he looked down into the garden below them.  He frowned suddenly, narrowing his eyes and leaning forward to get a clearer view.

“What is it?” Sif asked.

“There’s a man lying on the ground down there.”

 Sif peered over the wall. “Too deep in his cups?”

“I don’t think so.  Come.”

They wound their way down a spiraling staircase and through several halls and doorways, emerging into the garden below at a run.  The huddled, dark form lying on the paving stones had not stirred; Sif knelt to examine him as Thor’s eyes swept the shadows, the entrenched response of a warrior to any new environment.  

“Thor!”  Sif gently pulled the man’s cloak aside, bundling it and slipping it under his head. He was dressed in tunic and breeches rather than armor, and she had opened the neck of his tunic enough to reveal a bloody, ragged gash down the left side of his chest, over his heart.  

Thor crouched beside him, his practiced eyes evaluating it.  He met Sif’s gaze grimly.

“Bad.”  He bent closer.  “He lives, though. Do you recognize him?”

Sif was ripping a long strip from the hem of her dress; she pressed it to the wound.  Taking a glance at the face, she shook her head. 

“A guard, off-duty.” She gestured quickly at the insignia on his shoulder.  “He must have been meeting someone here.  What could have caused such an injury?”

A sibilant hiss sounded out of the deeper gloom beneath the oak, a sound so pregnant with menace that both of them tensed in every nerve.  Thor was instantly on his feet, slipping a dagger out of his boot, cursing the fact that Mjolnir lay at rest in his chambers.  Sif pulled a blade, too, from somewhere, a slim flash of silver.  

In the darkness under the tree before them, a deeper blackness was moving.  He  leaned toward it, his eyes seeking something more concrete to focus on, when, with shocking swiftness, a gray, blurred figure erupted out of the shadow, swinging what might have been a blade, though its edges wavered as if it were formed out of smoke and blowing ash.  

It slashed at Sif.  She ducked, and then continued forward in a fluid roll, coming up to strike backhanded with her own blade.  But the dark figure shifted with unearthly speed, twisting away out of reach.

Thor blinked, shaking his head in irritation.  He could not seem to truly perceive the creature; it wavered and blurred and appeared as nothing so much as an embodied shadow.  But as it dodged away from Sif’s strike, he saw a tiny opening and thrust forward with his dagger, putting all the momentum of his body behind it.

There was nothing there.  The dagger and his fist with it plunged through insubstantial air.

Air, and searing heat.  With a roar, he pulled his fist back.  The dagger’s edge was warped and curved, as if it had been immersed into molten rock.

He and Sif were on either side of it now.  He could see Sif weaving her head, back and forth, having no better success than he at really seeing the thing.  It was a formless shape in the darkness between them; suddenly it lifted its arms, or what might have been arms, and flung them outward.  Thor found himself enveloped in crackling smoke, filling his throat.  He stumbled backward.

Through stinging eyes, he saw a vague blackness swarm up the garden’s nearest wall. “Sif!”, he shouted, pointing with the dagger; she was already running forward, along the base of the wall.  He shoved the blade back into his boot and leaped up, catching the vines that grew over the wall with both hands, swinging himself atop.  

The wall was only a few inches wide; he ran with half his attention on his feet.  Looking forward, he saw the formless thing far ahead, moving with eerie, silent speed.  But, a glance upward gave Thor his bearings. Those familiar windows far above. . .

His teeth flashed in a sudden fierce grin; he skidded to a stop, extended his fist, and summoned the Hammer.

A few moments of breathless silence.  Down below he could hear Sif hiss an angry oath.  The thing was almost out of sight.

Mjolnir flew out the windows above in a soaring arc and smacked into his palm with a satisfying thud.  Immediately he flung it, exulting in its fierce hum as it streaked toward the dark figure ahead.

The creature paused, at the edge of vision, and then, as Mjolnir struck, its hazy body seemed to expand into a shapeless cloud that hovered for a moment and then fell from sight beyond the wall.

Thor sprinted forward, catching Mjolnir as it returned to him.  The wall was taller here, and below was a sunken courtyard and a series of arching, illuminated fountains. From behind him, Sif called out, “Do you see it?”

His eyes swept the entire yard.  The fountains’ glow provided enough light to clearly reveal that there was nothing there.

“Nothing!” he murmured.  Then, louder, for Sif’s benefit, he said, “It’s gone. Vanished.”

She pulled herself up onto the wall, muttering, ". . .see if I ever wear a gown again, anywhere, ever!".  She came to stand beside him.  After a moment, she said, “Shall we go down and search the courtyard?”

“No.  We must return to that guard and see to his wounds.”

“Yes, of course.”

They leaped down from the wall’s top, into the dark garden.  As they hastened back toward the oak tree, Sif said, “What was it?  It did not seem . . .entirely there.”

“And yet it was.”  Thor remembered the heat on his skin, and rubbed absentmindedly at his arm.

Then he abruptly halted, eyes widening.  Beside him, Sif uttered a muted exclamation.  The guard, whom they had left mortally wounded, was climbing to his feet.

“Ho, there, easy now.”  Thor said, striding forward to catch his arm.  “You’ll make it worse.”

The guard pulled his arm from Thor’s grasp, and glared at him stonily.  “Make what worse?”  And then, recognizing the face, he added, less coldly, “My lord.”

“Your wound. . .” Thor’s eyes narrowed. The man’s tunic was mussed, and speckled here and there with leaf debris, but the saturated, glistening bloodstain was gone.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I have no wound.”  The guard pulled aside the neck of his tunic, and both Thor and Sif could see only smooth, unbroken skin.

They exchanged a glance.  

Finally, Sif said, “We found you lying here.”

The guard shrugged, his eyes sliding away to peer fixedly at the dusky garden behind them .  “Forgive me, Lady Sif.  I fear . . .perhaps I imbibed a trifle too much ale.”  He looked at his hands, and seemed surprised to find himself holding a wrinkled scrap of fine red fabric. He glanced down at the ragged hem of Sif’s gown, and then wordlessly bundled the fragment up in one fist and handed it to her.

Thor crossed his arms over his chest.  “Our mistake,” he said gruffly.  “Be on your way, then, man.”

The guard directed a swift bow toward both of them, and then turned and walked to the garden’s access door.  His steps weaved slightly, and he stumbled over the threshold as he disappeared inside.

Sif held the strip of fabric out, dangling it before her eyes. No blood.  “Only drunk, after all.”  Her voice was skeptical.

“Perhaps.”  Thor looked over at her.  “But it is interesting that he knew exactly where to show us the nonexistent wound.”

Sif smiled grimly.  “Yes. Interesting.”  Her smile withered.  “Thor, that thing?  Were we chasing some sort of . . .ghost?”

Thor shook his head, a frown creasing his brow as he looked back into the shadows under the oak tree.  “I know not.”

Then he remembered his ruined dagger, and drew it out of his boot, half expecting it to be straight and whole. But the warped, twisted edge reflected dully the moon’s bright light, and its bent, melted surface winked a soundless signal into his troubled face.

Far behind them, in the courtyard, a dark shadow rose out of a fountain’s pool, where it had concealed itself in the broken pattern of the ripples.  It shook itself free of the water, and flowed over the wall and back into the garden.

 

* * *

 

Hrafn dipped his head, pulling tentatively at the reins as if testing how much latitude his rider would allow.  When they remained slack, he buried his nose contentedly in the deep turf, pulling off large mouthfuls, pointedly ignoring Bruni as the red horse did the same.  Hrafn did not care for the company of other stallions, but he was too well-bred to protest with whom his master chose to ride. 

A cool breeze stirred the grasses; in the distance Asgard lay like a jeweled tapestry, arranged carefully on the diamond-spangled velvet of space and night. How many times had he seen this view, Loki wondered.  Thousands?  And yet, in all the branches of Yggdrasil, in all the places he had walked, was there any beauty to surpass it?

He turned toward his companion.  She threw him a smile, but, as she looked away and gazed out over the city, and as he watched, a deep and ancient sorrow layered itself over the soft angles of her face, and he knew her eyes were seeing something else entirely.

He reached out, and with the tips of his fingers touched the back of her hand, as it lay at rest on her thigh.  Her chin rose in a startled sigh, and her eyes sought his as she brought herself back from the distant port where mind and memory had taken her.

 “Sigunn.” He leaned closer, bending all his thought on her.  “What troubles you?  Will you tell me? Why were they seeking you, in the Feast Hall tonight?”

Her lips parted; her eyes roamed his face, seeking refuge, reassurance, he knew not what.  A stretched, breathless moment wound itself around them, the only sound the faint jingle of bridles as the horses grazed, and the distant murmur of Ida’s stream.

Then she looked away, her eyes shuttering as if a curtain had been drawn.  

“It is nothing,” she said.  “Merely. . .a lover’s quarrel.” 

Loki sat back, drawing his head up.  His voice was expressionless as he said, “I see.”

They returned in silence to the stables.  When Sigunn thanked him, and wished him a "good night, my lord", she did not use his name, and he did not correct her. 

 

* * *

 

She closed the door to her chambers and leaned upon it. Slowly, her legs forsook her, and she slid down the length of the door, until she sat on the cold, polished floor, her knees drawn up to her chest.  She tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling, but what she saw there was not the flickering patterns of firelight but only Loki’s face as he watched her lie to him.

She reached up, to the little table that perched beside the door, and took from it a square of folded parchment, marked with her name and her family’s rune.  She studied it, until suddenly it blurred and her eyes stung with tears that she would not allow to fall.

“Do you see to what a pass you have brought me, Father?” she said aloud.  “Telling a foolish lie to one who can smell a falsehood from a farthing away.  To one who. . .” 

Images of the prince filled her mind--his tall form encased in black armor, the strength of his arm as he tossed her into Bruni’s saddle, the wicked curl at the edge of his mouth in the Feast Hall, the line of his neck when he looked away from her, the glint in his eye when he looked back.  His gaze as he clothed her with his magic. 

She whispered, “To one who deserves better of me.”

_And who are you, Sigunn Vidardottir?  Are you only the sum of the burden you bear? The chains your father has forged for you? Mare to the barren House of Halfdan?_

_Are you the fire, and nothing more?_

_How have you allowed them to make you so afraid?  To make you as small as they are?_

She rose to her feet, and walked to the fire burning brightly in its brazen hearth. Crumpling the parchment, she bent, and laid it on the flames, and watched it burn.  When it was a square of black ash, she lifted her gaze, looking to the broad window, the glittering city outside, and, beyond, the dark Field of Ida.

She closed her eyes, let out a slow breath, and said, “By the fire that I bear, and the blood of my mothers before me, I swear this vow:  should we meet once more. . .when we meet once more. . .I will never again speak a lie to Loki Odinson.  I will deal him only truth.”

 

* * *

 

When Loki emerged from the stables, he found an old man with a deformed hand awaiting him in the yard. The old man bent the neck, perfunctorily, and then said, “A moment, my lord?”

Loki did not answer, merely raised a brow and nodded for him to continue.

“I have been waiting here some time for you, if you will forgive my presumption. I watched you ride out with Lady Sigunn.”

“And?”

“I fear, my lord, that you do not understand how the matter lies between Sigunn and my son Theoric.”

“Tell me then.”

“She is his.  She is not free. You . . .She. . .It is not fitting that you should pay her the compliment of your attention.”

Loki walked toward him, eyes cold and intent.  “You speak as if the lady were your possession.  You watch her as if she were a prize won but not claimed.”

The disdain in his voice provoked a harsh frown on the old man’s face.  “She is indeed a prize won. At great cost!” 

“Your cost? Or hers?”

“She knows her duty; there are debts that must be paid.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at Loki.  “There are strong forces at work in this business.”

“What forces?” One of Loki’s fingers tapped idly on the palm of his other hand; his eyes sharpened.

“All you need know, Prince, is that she is pledged to my son!”

Loki’s hand stilled.  “Pledged. To wed?”

“Yes.”

“And yet she displays such aversion to his company. And yours.”  He stopped, only a stride away now; the old man retreated a step.

“That. . .will change, in time. She is promised to the House of Halfdan, by her father’s word.  It is a family matter!”

Loki let the silence lengthen, until the old man shifted his weight uncomfortably.  Then, he said, his voice soft, a silken blade, “Surely it is also a matter of the lady’s wishes.”

“That is not your concern, my lord.  She is not your concern.” The old man’s eyes were glowing with suppressed rage.

“No?”

“She is my son’s!”

Loki took the last stride, so that the man was compelled to bend his head back to see his face, so that he was forced to retreat yet again.  Loki’s voice was a bare whisper, and yet it seemed to echo through the yard. 

“If he is so certain of her, let him go and claim her.  And I will wish them joy on their wedding day.”

The old man took a last step back, fury cooled suddenly by a dim awareness of the power that circled around Loki like impalpable wind, like a harnessed cyclone with the prince at its core.  With the barest of nods, he turned and passed quickly out of the stableyard, the heels of his boots beating the measure of retreat, leaving Loki centered in the storm of his own anger.

Anger at Sigunn’s lie, at her refusal to trust him, and at himself for allowing that refusal to wound him, anger greater still at this vicious old man, who would seek to cage the fiery maiden, and who would presume to dictate the actions of Loki, prince of Asgard!  And, most of all, anger at the unseen, barbed links of the chains that bound him.

Suddenly, with an incoherent growl, he curled one hand into a fist and then opened it upward in a savage thrust, releasing a surge of raw power; the air above him fractured and rippled, warping the starlight.

When the pain had diminished enough that he could stand, he rose to his feet in the darkness, contained and still, a lone figure garbed all in black.

_It is not my concern? She is not my concern?  You’re too late, old man.  I have already made her my concern._

 

* * *

 

In the Feast Hall, Frigga turned to her husband, sensing his sudden frozen tension.  

“What is it? My lord?”  Her soft voice could not hide her unease.  She laid a hand on his forearm, where it rested on the table.

“He tests his bonds.”  Odin gazed into the far distance, seeing what Frigga could not.

“Loki?” Her fingers tightened on his arm.  “He is not. . .he is well?” 

“For now. But he will continue to strain against the shackles.”

 “You could help him.  You could . . .speak with him.” Her eyes were pleading.

“Frigga, you know that his fate is in his own hands.  He knows the consequences.  If he pushes too far, he will be destroyed.”

“No!”  She brought her hand to her throat, her breast rising and falling as she took a ragged breath.  “You can unchain him.  You can trust in the oath he has sworn; you can be content with the terrible punishment he has already borne!”

He turned his eye to her, and saw his own pain and fear manifested in her face. 

Sadly he whispered, “No. I cannot.”

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arts of dealing truth and throwing daggers. . .

_**Storm's Eye** _

Part 4/20  


_Morning, in the Court of Archers, and elsewhere in the Palace. . ._  
  


"We are fools."

A shadow fell over Sif as she sat in the deserted Feast Hall, a small gilded trencher piled with fruit and bread at her elbow. She looked up to find Thor regarding her with a glower. Behind him, a platoon of servants was clearing away the detritus of last night's Feast.

"And a fair morning to you, also, my lord," she said.

He waved her words away. "My apologies. Fair morning. Sif, we are fools."

"For a particular reason, or is it a general condition?" She plucked a wedge of pale melon from the selection before her, and took a bite.

He bent toward her. "How is it that we allowed that guard to stumble away last night without obtaining from him his name and company?"

Sif chewed, considering. Then she swallowed, and said, "Because we are fools."

Thor straightened his shoulders and grunted.

"Although to do ourselves justice," she continued, gesturing with the melon, "only shortly before, we had spent ten minutes chasing after a ghost."

He smiled at her grudgingly. "True. Not our best moment, then?"

"Possibly not."

He rested his hand on Mjolnir's handle, as it hung by his side. "It wasn't a ghost. First, we will go back to the garden and examine the ground. Perhaps it left some sign of its passing."

""First. . .'?"

"Then we will find the guard, and elicit from him his name and company and the tale of his life, especially his life as of yesterday." He shook his head impatiently. "Come, Sif. We cannot allow a mysterious shadow to haunt the halls of Asgard."

Sif glanced pointedly down at the half-finished fruit.

He was already turning away toward the Hall's entrance. "Bring it along,"  


* * *

  


Somber statues lined the walls of the Palace's central corridor, enormous sculpted testaments to Asgard's warrior past and present. High above their helmeted heads and sightless eyes, the ceiling's domed vault was enameled a luminous, cerulean blue, with glowing lamps arranged to mimic the constellations visible in the night sky: the Wolf, the Serpent, the Huntress, the Spear. Giant columns supported the vault, all carved in the shape of ash trees as monuments to Yggdrasil itself. Midway down the corridor, two ornately-engraved doors allowed entry into the tower that housed the royal family, attended on either side by silent guards, their eyes fixed on the distant vista of the opposite wall, and their postures stolid and unmovable: the essence of standing watch everywhere in the Realms.

At the sound of light footsteps, one of the guards unbent enough to shift his eyes to the approaching visitor, and, when he recognized her, he relaxed further, and allowed himself to incline his head in dignified greeting.

"Fair morning, Lady Sigunn."

"And to you," Sigunn replied. She glanced over at the other guard, who gave her a friendly nod and then turned his eyes back to the unfocused middle distance. The first guard reached for the door, to open it for her as he had on countless other occasions, but Sigunn raised a hand to stop him.

"No, thank you, I do not attend the queen just now. Rather, I need. . ." she paused, and her cheeks flushed slightly as she continued in a brisk voice, "I wonder if you would know where Prince Loki is to be found?"

The guard could not prevent a widening of the eyes, his surprise subtly betraying itself.

"Yes, my lady. He passed this way some time ago, and went out into the Court of Archers." With a tilt of his head, he indicated an arched doorway in an alcove at the corridor's far end.

"Thank you." Sigunn smiled, and the guard found himself returning it. But as she turned away, he looked over at his fellow, whose eyebrows were raised to the rim of his helmet. Ever so slightly, his shoulders lifted in a shrug.

They turned forward once more, faces slackening into expressionless stares, stances shifting back into the pose required for hours of standing in one place. Neither of them noticed the gray, formless shadow that oozed along the wall, behind the statues, keeping pace with Sigunn as she walked away.  


* * *

  


The Court of Archers was a cloister, lined on all four sides with delicately roofed and pillared porches, and an expanse of polished stone floor, open to the sky. Sunlight slanted down, cut sharply by the angles of the towers above, creating a complex interweaving of light and shadow. Sigunn lingered at the entrance, sudden tension knotting itself around her heart. In her mind she heard a low voice asking, "What troubles you?" and her own voice answering, lightly, foolishly, "It is nothing."

Her lips tightened.

A movement out in the courtyard caught her eye. She stepped forward, slipping behind the pillar of the archway, slowly expelling the breath that had caught in her throat. The prince was there, centered in a ring of faceless mannequins, all of them pierced with slim, silver daggers. He was stripped to the waist, black hair tied back with a thong, attired only in leather breeches. Muscles flexed under the skin of his back and chest as he twisted and spun, and, after a moment, she realized that he was conjuring the daggers out of the air, filling his hand with them in the moment before he released them. A golden armband, cunningly wrought in the sinuous shape of the _nadr_ , the serpent, curled around his upper arm, its edges pressing deeply into his skin as his bicep contracted and another dagger winged its deadly flight across the courtyard. She wrenched her eyes away from him to watch as it buried itself to the hilt in a target's throat.

He stopped, and stood for a moment, neck bent, his back to her. Then he lifted his head and spoke without turning.

"Good day, my lady."

His voice was cool. Sigunn felt the heat inside her instantly congeal into chagrin; she was skulking behind a pillar, eyeing a half-clad royal prince! But retreat now was unthinkable, so she stepped out onto the stone floor, and offered him a short bow.

"You are an unskilled spy." He turned toward her, his face quiet and unreadable.

Sigunn tried to smile, an attempt that quickly withered. "I was not spying, my lord. I was. . ."

In that instant, a dozen light comments presented themselves to her tongue, and she urgently wished to use any or all of them. But, the vow she had made welled up from the depths of her belly, that visceral, demanding vow.

_Deal truth._

So she swallowed and finished, "I was admiring you."

Even from across the yard she saw a spark kindle behind his eyes.

"Were you?" He paused, and lifted his head. "Come closer then, Lady. I am willing to return that favor."

She walked toward him; his eyes held her, his gaze roaming her face. When she stopped before him, one corner of his mouth lifted.

"My warmest compliments," he said, his voice no longer cool. He went to a bench against the wall, picked up the soft black tunic lying there, and pulled it over his head.

"I . . . thank you, my lord."

"To what do I owe this honor?" He slung a leather belt around his waist and secured it. Beneath the hem of the tunic's short sleeve, the serpent winked at her.

"I've come to propose a game." she said quickly, before her courage could leave her.

"I'm fond of games." He stepped back toward her, pausing to wrest a dagger out of a target's heart. "What sport did you have in mind?"

Her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath. "Truth-telling."

"Ah." His fingers tapped lightly against the blade as he smiled humorlessly. "Is that a particular talent of yours?"

She met his gaze squarely. "Not always. But I will play today. I will answer any question of yours, as truthfully as I can, and you will do the same for me."

"Any question?" His face was cool again, expressionless.

"Yes. Any."

"And how do you know that I will play by these rules?" His mouth suddenly thinned. "I have been told that I am a skilled liar."

She raised both brows at him. "But I have a hold over you which none other can boast."

"A hold?" He smiled suddenly. "Ah, yes. Bruni. Your noble knight-at-arms."

"If you dishonor our bargain here today, Bruni will be forced to challenge you to single combat."

"Hand to. . .hoof?"

She laughed. "Yes. Which would almost certainly end tragically."

"I am loathe to summon tragedy upon my own head."

"There you are, then."

His smile faded, and his eyes flashed suddenly. "And what hold have I over you? How will I know that you are telling me a truth. . .or a lie?"

Her words in the field of Ida lay between them, leaving stale, muddy tracks that could not be wiped away.

"I'm afraid that you will be obliged to trust me, my lord," she said, and then added, her voice almost a whisper, "Loki."

The frown between his brows deepened, and his eyes narrowed. Sigunn lifted her chin, allowing him to see in her face all that there was to see. After a moment, while her heart beat heavily, his eyes lightened. She knew then that he understood her unvoiced regret, and the knot in her heart loosened.

"Very well, my lady, I will play your game," he said, "but only if you will, in return, play one of mine."  


* * *

  


"This isn't really a spectral sort of place." Fandral the swordsman gazed around at the garden discontentedly. "It requires more atmosphere to properly house a phantom."

They had met him coming into the Feast Hall as they were leaving it, and, after listening to a few words of Thor's clipped explanation, he had joined their party, remarking, "I always enjoy a bit of ghost-hunting before breakfast." Then he had stolen Sif's melon and eaten it as they walked.

"It wasn't a ghost," Thor growled. He was glaring down at the paving stones where last night the guard had lain. Even in the brilliant light of morning, there was no sign of blood. He hadn't truly expected to find any, but it was maddening nonetheless.

"Thor, Fandral." Sif crouched under the oak, examining its trunk. Thor stooped, ducking his head under the low-hanging branches, and, then with a low exclamation, bent closer. There, pressed deeply into the rough bark, a ragged black mark stood out sharply, even in the deep shadow of the tree's leaves.

Fandral leaned over Sif's shoulder and squinted at it. "Is that a . . .scorchmark?"

Sif looked up at Thor. "You did say it was hot, when you struck it."

"Very."

For a few breaths they were all silent. Then, slowly Thor said, "What sort of creature consists of an amorphous shadow that is also burning hot?"

Neither of his companions answered. Staring at the blackened mark, Thor murmured, "Loki might know. He's studied so widely. . ."

Abruptly he felt his brother's absence like a physical blow; in days past, in the days. . .before, Loki would have accompanied them on such an errand as this. He realized with sudden, sorrowful clarity that, though his brother lived, and had returned to Asgard, he was still in truth further away than the deepest roots of the Tree.

Fandral opened his mouth, closed it again, and then said doubtfully, "The _eldjotnar_ burn. . ."

Thor shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "Yes, but they are flesh and bone, not shadow."

"And an _eldjotun_ could never enter Asgard without the Allfather's knowledge," said Sif, before adding hesitantly, "Could it?"

Thor's face was grim. "That guard. He wore the hawk, yes?" He glanced at Sif for confirmation, and she nodded.

As they left the garden, he said, "There are only so many places in Asgard where the bodyguard stand duty. Let's find him."  


* * *

 

In the far corner of the Court of Archers, where the sun's slanting rays gave way to deep shade, a shadow darker still lurked, and watched. It watched the lady's face as she spoke, and the black prince's eyes as he studied her. And the wavering gray edges of its form flickered a dull, angry red.

After several minutes, issuing a barely-audible hiss, it slipped to the edge of the porch, and then glided up along the ceiling, following the arched line of the roof, until it reached the doorway, and disappeared.  


* * *

  


Sigunn hesitated, looking into those gleaming eyes warily. There was a glint of unholy mischief deep within them. "What game might that be?" she asked.

Instead of answering, Loki flipped the dagger in his hand, catching it by the blade, and then, though his eyes never left her face, he flung it, a supple, wrist-torquing flick. The dagger flew, tumbling end for end, and impaled itself in the chest of a nearby target with an audible twang. It hung there, quivering.

He lifted one brow in unspoken challenge.

Sigunn regarded the dagger until it stopped vibrating, and then brought her eyes back to his, narrowed skeptically.

"For each successful hit, one question asked, one answered. Truthfully." He grinned at her.

She shook her head, through she could not help smiling in return. "You will best me easily."

He shrugged and spread his hands. "Perhaps you will best me at truth-telling. And perhaps you are more skilled with a blade than you know. Perhaps you have. . .hidden depths."

Sigunn was quite certain that she did not. She felt like a bather wading in a pool whose floor had, without warning, dropped away into nothingness.

He raised a brow. "Well, my lady? Truth for daggers? Will you play?"

And what choice was there, in such a circumstance, but to swim?

"I will play. And I will give you the first truth freely." She leaned toward him and whispered, "I have never thrown a dagger. Ever."

He bent toward her as well, and whispered back, "Then I'll let you go first."

Straightening, he glanced around at the circle of targets, and then, with a wave of his hand, they flickered and disappeared, only to reappear scattered randomly across the courtyard, some in shadow, some in the sunlight, some near and some as far across the floor as possible. Sigunn glanced up at him quizzically, and so she noticed the slight wince, the tightening of his lips.

"You may take the nearer ones." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Perhaps that will give you an advantage."

"I don't think so. You are grossly overestimating my potential talents."

He laughed.

"Give me your hand," he said, holding out his own. His fingers closed over hers, his thumb sliding lightly across the back of her hand before he turned it over, palm to the sky, and then passed his free hand above it, in a curious, fluid gesture. She felt smooth metal against her skin, but she was observing his face, and she saw, once again, the tiny grimace of pain.

Then she looked down into her hand, and a gasp of wonder escaped her. The blade she held was nothing like the slim deadly shapes that Loki had been casting; it was a dagger of reddish bronze, its edge flaring like a wind-blown flame, and the hilt was formed by the flowing sweep of a running horse's arching neck and outthrust head, lovely beyond words.

She looked up to find him regarding her closely. He said, quietly, almost defensively, "It is fitting. You require a weapon better suited to your hand."

"It's very beautiful. I don't think I can bear to throw it away."

He smiled then. "Let us see how it flies."

She hefted it; heavy, but so perfectly balanced that it did indeed feel as if it would fly with only the slightest urging. She turned toward the nearest target, lifting it tentatively, and then glanced back at Loki over her shoulder.

"I'm not certain how . . ."

"Like this," he said. He positioned himself behind her and leaned forward, one hand on her upper arm, the other pointing past her, along her sightline. "Choose your mark, and then let your eyes alone guide you. Don't allow your mind to dictate the throw. Eyes and arm and hand; they alone direct the dagger."

His golden armband gleamed, there at the corner of her vision. She was acutely aware of him, of his arms around her, the warmth of his body against her back. He reached down then, covering her hand with his own, his fingers gently arranging hers so that they held the dagger properly.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his breath stirring her hair.

She inhaled shakily, trying to gather her scattered thoughts, and lifted her hand. His arm and hand went with her.

"No," he murmured. "You're thinking too much, trying too hard. Eyes and hand only, Sigunn. Choose your mark, and let fly."

She nodded, desperately wrestling her mind away from the distraction his nearness provoked, drew another breath, concentrated on the target's broad torso. Then, she cocked back her arm, and flung the dagger, squeezing her eyes shut as it left her hand. There was a muted thunk, and, behind her, Loki laughed softly and stepped away.

Reluctantly, she opened one eye, to see the dagger buried, still trembling, in the target's left knee.

She turned to him with a mock glare; he was stifling a smile. He held up both hands, composing his face into an expression of deep sincerity. "No, don't despair. It's a valid strategy, really: don't kill the enemy-hobble him."

The planes of his face softened suddenly, the laughter in his eyes shading into something else. "For then, his companion may stop attacking you in order to give him aid, and you will have removed two from the battle instead of one. If the companion is a friend. . . or a brother."

His eyes was warm for a moment, lost in a long-ago memory, and then, as he came back to himself, they glittered with a sudden, bitter bleakness, a change so abrupt that Sigunn instinctively reached out a hand to touch his arm. But he was walking forward, retrieving the dagger.

Presenting it back to her, hilt first, he said, "You did strike the target. I owe you a truth."

She took it, caressing the elegant arch of the horse's neck with one finger. Then she looked up into his face and asked, "Why does it cause you pain? When you wield your magic?"

"Ah." His jaw tightened. "That is because I am chained. The more power I exercise, the tighter the chains wind themselves about me, and the more deeply they inject their venom." He bowed, ironically. "Prince Loki the Shackled."

Sigunn stared at him, bewildered horror seeping into her eyes. "But I don't understand. How is that possible? You. . .you were hung on the Tree! You swore the oath before all of Asgard! How is it that you still face retribution?"

He shook his head. "No, Lady. One question only. You've asked, and I have answered." His voice flattened. "In any case, such mysteries may only be unfolded by Odin himself."

Then he raised a hand that held a silver blade. "My turn, now."  


* * *

 

The three of them stood in an alcove opposite the main entrance to the throneroom, holding a council of strategy. Through the open door they could see the Hlidskjalf, Odin's High Seat, attended by six of the bodyguard, in one of whom they were very interested.

"We cannot simply march in there and snatch the man away. He's on duty." Fandral was saying, although the half-smile on his face seemed to suggest that perhaps they should do just that.

"And then we would be required to explain our need of him." Thor said. He had a sudden vision of himself attempting to describe the inexplicable events of last night to his father, and shook his head. Better to find the shadowy thing, and present it to his father as a deed already accomplished.

"We can wait here, until his duty is done," said Sif, for which practical suggestion she received a withering look from both men, neither of whom took well to passive tactics.

"Well, then what?" she said irritably. "If we must extract the man, we need some excuse. Fandral, can't you dream up some task that only a bodyguard can perform?" When he didn't answer, she looked over at him to find him staring over Thor's shoulder, into the hall beyond.

"Fandral?"

"Forgive me, my friends," he said slowly, "But is it possible that I am seeing a ghost?"

Thor spun on his heel. "Where?"

Fandral pointed with his chin, down the length of the long Approach, the gilded hall that led the people of Asgard to Odin's Seat. "Watch the space along the wall, in the shadows," he said, his voice low and uncertain. "It seems as though something is moving there."

Thor peered forward, his face tight. Sif and Fandral, on his either side, scanned the distance in silence. The only sound was the muted murmur of voices inside the throne room.

The Approach was walled on only one side; the other was open to the air, bordered with a columned balustrade and, among the columns, trees planted in huge, spherical urns. The roofline sliced the sunshine sharply, forming a pool of deep shade. A breeze filtered through the trees; the leaves created thousands of dancing shadows. But, as Thor watched, a darker shape appeared to be easing its way along the wall.

Thor grasped the Hammer. He glanced to either side; Sif and Fandral had drawn blades.

And then, from out the throne room, came the guard, though not from the entrance they'd been watching. He emerged from one of the lesser doors, further up the hall, with his face drawn and set, and very white, and his body stiff. He glanced both ways with a kind of controlled frantic tension, and turned quickly down the hall, into the flickering shadows. He was walking, but his steps increased in speed until they were almost a run.

"Stop!" Thor commanded, but the man did not appear to hear. He disappeared around a corner, into a side passage. A gust of wind shook the trees, the shadows bent and swirled, and one of them slipped into the passage after him.

Thor was running forward. But just as he reached the passage, he heard a dull, throaty moan that ran down his spine like a cascade of freezing water. Sliding around the corner, he saw the guard, far down the passage, leaning against the wall with his hand to his heart. His eyes quickly searched the entire length. No shadow. Then Sif and Fandral careened around the corner behind him.

"You there!" he thundered.

The guard turned. Even from this distance, Thor could see that his eyes were blank, staring blindly. He was speaking, in a voice barely audible, "She is with him. . ."

"You stay there," Thor shouted. But the man turned and disappeared out the far end of the passage, moving with unearthly speed.

When the three of them, giving chase, burst out of the passage into a large antechamber, it was deserted.

"Which way?" Sif asked.

Thor pointed. "Fandral, that way. Sif, come with me. He couldn't have gone far."

Fandral nodded, running lightly out a door that led onto the Feast Hall's portico. Sif and Thor took the other door, which opened out into the Palace's central corridor.  
  


* * *

  


Loki twisted with a sudden violent grace, with such speed that Sigunn did not see the dagger leave his hand. She could track it only by the silken thud it made as it lodged deep in the eye socket of a target at the courtyard's far end.

She blew out a breath, and dipped her head in tribute to his skill when he turned back to her. Then she spread her hands. "Ask me."

"What debt does your father owe to the House of Halfdan?" His voice was soft and clipped, his eyes instantly intent.

Sigunn stared at him, fully astounded. "Debt? I. . .I know of no debt."

When he raised a skeptical brow, she felt her chest tighten. She laid her hand on his forearm. "Truly."

Then she pulled away, stepping back, frowning as the import of his question penetrated. "Why do you ask me this?"

His gaze bored into her. "Last night, I was accosted in the stableyard by an old man with a deformed hand. I believe you are acquainted?"

She nodded. "Gyrd Bragasson. He is a gardarlord in the south; his lands adjoin my father's estate."

"And you are betrothed to his son."

To her own surprise, a laugh escaped her throat. It surprised him, too, she knew, as his gaze abruptly shifted from intense to bemused. "Yes, to be sure. Do you know, I have been girding myself all morning to tell you that, and here I find that you already knew."

"The old one was very eager to share it with me."

The laughter disappeared at once from her eyes. "Of course he was."

"And when I suggested that perhaps it was not such a joyful event for you as it seemed to be for him, he informed me that there were debts to be paid. . ."

"Debts. . ." she shook her head, the troubled frown growing between her brows.

"And strong forces at work."

"He used those words?"

"Oh, yes." He waited, but she wandered a few steps away, running her hand along a target's arm. Finally, he asked, "Your pledge to the young man is not in payment of a debt?"

"No. At least, not to my knowledge." She turned back to him. "I was betrothed to Theoric when I was eight days old, and he was but a child of four. I have always thought the pledge a light thing-an attempt by both our fathers to join the two holdings-something that could be easily broken when Theoric and I were of an age. Theoric certainly never displayed any grand passion for my person." She stopped; her eyes flashed. "Until recently. . ."

"You tried to break the pledge?"

"Yes, I wrote to my father, asking that it be done. But yesterday morning I received a message from him. He commanded me instead to honor the pledge, and name a Day of Marriage immediately. He said if I did not, the House of Halfdan would . . .compel me to do so."

"Compel you?"

"He said that they were a cold and barren House, and that my marriage to Theoric would provide them with new blood." Her eyes narrowed, an echo of yesterday's fury. "As if I were to be sold like a mare in heat!"

Loki smiled. "Did you send that answer back to your father?"

"No. I burned his message." She looked slightly embarrassed.

Despite the gravity of the conversation, he laughed. "Not perhaps the obedient, dutiful response he would have wished for."

She smiled reluctantly.

Loki shook his head. "A maiden of Asgard cannot be forced into marriage, by Odin's law. How do they think they can compel you?"

"I know not. I've been very carefully avoiding Theoric and his father." She grinned at him. "With your kind assistance, last night."

"You fear them?"

The grin vanished. Slowly, unwillingly, she nodded. "Yes, though I haven't in the past. They are a family I have known all my life! But they have changed; something has happened . ."

Loki took a step closer, bending his head to look more closely into her face. "They want you badly."

"Yes. But not because I am such a flower of womanhood that Theoric is driven to these lengths out of desire for me."

He tilted his head to her with tiny, ironic smile. "This does smell of greed, not the tender pursuit of a lover. You have something they want."

She looked away. Her fingers tightened on the dagger she held.

"Sigunn." He touched her hand. "What do they want?"

She raised her eyes to his face, but she saw instead the aged eyes of her grandmother, her old voice whispering, " _Outside of this House, we do not speak of it. Never speak of it, Sigunn._ "

The vision wavered and blurred, and she was looking into Loki's green eyes instead, and the vow burned in her belly like a glowing coal.

Low-voiced, she said, "I bear an . . .inheritance, shall we call it? And it is mine alone. I think they hunger for it, though what use they could possibly make of it, I cannot tell, for they must know that I will never yield it up to their service. No matter what measures they might take to. . .persuade me."

Suddenly she felt grief overwhelm her, suffusing all her being. She whispered, "As others before me have been persuaded."

Empty despair etched itself in every line of her body, her eyes so lost in a maze of ancient pain that Loki reached out to her, touching her face with the back of his hand, bringing her back to the courtyard and himself.

"What inheritance, Sigunn?" he asked.

"Blood and flames."

The voice was dark and rough with barely-contained rage. Loki looked up, as Sigunn gasped and spun around; the horsehead dagger dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering to the floor. Theoric Gyrdson was standing in the courtyard's entrance, his hand upon his sword, and his eyes glazed red.

"Blood and flames," he repeated, walking toward them. His voice scratched and guttered as he added, ". . . and victory. Isn't that your legacy? Sigunn Victory-Bringer?"

Loki shifted his weight, a subtle, easy movement that put Sigunn behind his shoulder. In his hand there was a blade that hadn't been there a moment before.

Theoric's eyes remained fixed on her. "And we do hunger for it."

There was a sudden sound of running feet, and Thor and Sif surged through the doorway, and skidded to an abrupt stop. Theoric twisted to one side. Sigunn's fingers, white-knuckled, were spread over her heart. Loki spared Thor the briefest of glances before turning his cold gaze back on Theoric. A breath of tense silence filled the courtyard, as the five of them confronted one another, among the faceless mannequins.

Thor's eyes traveled from the clenched jaw of the guard, to his brother, armed with a dagger and looking coolly murderous, to the maiden with her fiery hair and blazing, pain-filled eyes.

Slowly, he dropped one hand to Mjolnir's handle, and asked, "Is there a problem here?"  
  


* * *

 

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The question of Loki's honor, and the limits of the warmth of brotherhood.

 

**_Storm's Eye_ **

Part 5/20

_From the Court of Archers to the Lore Vault . . ._

The thick silence blanketing the Court of Archers was broken by a soft, fleshy click as the guard's neck twisted, and his eyes focused on Thor, a red patina coating the pupils. His chin skewed to the side and back again.

"All is well," he rasped.

Loki was watching him with the close, dispassionate attention a wolf gives its prey. Without taking his eyes from Theoric's face, his mouth slanted into a half-smile.

"That remains to be seen."

The guard's gaze swiveled back to Loki, and then, hungrily, to Sigunn. He bared his teeth, and hissed, pivoting his shoulders to face Loki squarely, his arms shifting away from his sides in a pose so overtly threatening that, behind him, Thor raised the Hammer. Loki shot a glare at Thor, giving him a minute shake of his head. Then he lifted his chin, his whole posture disdainful.

"Have you come to collect the debt?" he murmured, eyes intent on the face before him. "You will get no payment here today,  _hjunidr Halfdan_."

At the sound of his House-name, Theoric's face contorted, the red eyes blazed, and then, with a brutal shudder, his body bent, head twisting side to side. One hand came to his brow, clenching it with such force that the finger joints paled with the strain. Behind him, Loki heard Sigunn's quickly-indrawn breath. He moved, then, three leisurely strides to the left, and Theoric's head jerked upright and followed him with slitted eyes, breath coming heavily between twisted lips. Slowly, Loki stepped further around, forcing the guard to shift his whole body in order to keep him in sight, to turn his back on Sigunn, and also on Thor and Sif. As he moved, Loki spoke again, deliberately darkening his tone, coloring his words with scorn.

"There are some debts that aren't meant to be paid."

"You know  _nothing_  of it, princeling!" Theoric spat out the final word like a fragment of rotten meat.

Over Theoric's shoulder, Loki saw Thor glance at him, puzzlement warring with the light of battle in his eyes.

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded out in the corridor, running past the door. They stopped, and backtracked rapidly, and Fandral entered the court, his eyes sweeping the scene that presented itself. He drew up abruptly, raised both brows and asked, "Have I missed something?"

The interruption triggered a violent struggle within the guard's body. His neck snapped sideways,and his head began to weave back and forth as he stared at Thor, then Sif, and then with an incoherent growl, at Sigunn. He lurched forward, and then stopped, teetering, both hands clutching at his chest, at his heart. He bent almost double, and then looked up to stare unseeing at Loki, who watched, fascinated, as the red rage drained out of his eyes. Suddenly he was just a man in guard's armor, not a twisting, towering menace. As he straightened again, his face bore, for an instant, an expression of mortification and dawning fear. Loki eyed him warily.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Enough!" Thor roared, covering the last distance between himself and the guard with one stride. He grasped Theoric's arm and pulled him away from Loki, spinning him around. "What ails you, man?"

The guard shook his head, and waved a hand before his face, as if brushing away a cloud of stinging flies, and then looked at Thor with clear eyes, guileless eyes that Thor trusted not at all. "I am well, my lord."

"I think not! You were prepared to attack us all just now!"

The guard's eyes opened wider, in an expression of such perfectly contrived confusion that it could only be false. "My lord?"

Frustration began tapping a steady beat in the back of Thor's mind. Angrily he gestured between Loki and the guard. "What is this between you? And what is all this talk of debt and payment?" His gaze slid from the guard then, to linger, for a moment, on Loki's expressionless face. "Loki?"

Loki's eyes slanted away. Slowly, he said, "That is a private matter."

Thor stared at him.

_What? A private matter?_

He turned to glare at the guard once more. "And there is that shadow."

"Shadow, my lord?" The guard's voice had grown smooth, his face creased with innocent puzzlement. His eyes flickered toward the maiden.

"Yes! The gray shad-. . ." Abruptly, Thor stopped speaking. He knew in the depths of his belly that this guard was fully prepared to blithely deny all of it: the shadow, the missing wound, the crazed behavior just now. All of it. He could practically hear the glib "I know not, my lord" and "I am perfectly well, my lord" ringing in his ears.

He was having none of that.

"You will tell me why you have come to this place! Why did you leave your post?"

"Ah. . ." For an instant, the face before him went blank. Thor could almost see him scraping for a useful lie. Then he said, quickly, "I was sent to escort Lady Sigunn to the queen."

Thor felt rather than saw Loki's sudden watchful stillness. They all three looked across the room to where the lady stood. She raised her chin, lancing Theoric with a cold glare, and said, "I require no escort. Sir."

The guard's eyes flashed dangerously, but he said nothing. Thor studied him for a moment more, and then said, "Since the lady is content to walk alone, you have delivered your message, and you will return to your post. And we shall accompany you. We have . . .further questions."

He glanced over at Sif and Fandral, who nodded.

"Of course, my lord. As you wish." The guard inclined his head respectfully, and yet, in the depths of his eyes, Thor could see a gleam of barely-controlled, simmering rage. He liked it not at all.

"Let us go, then." He gestured toward the door with a firm nod.

The guard bowed again, at Thor alone, so pointedly ignoring Loki that all of Thor's instincts hummed. As he followed the man out the doorway, with Sif and Fandral at his heels, he thought,  _No guard of Odin would deliberately slight a royal prince. No guard of Odin would dare. Therefore these are not the actions of a guard of Odin. And when does a guard not behave like a guard? When there is treason? or some other. . .mischief?_

And he knew, as he walked away, that what troubled him most about all of it was the fact that it involved Loki.

Silence descended upon the Court of Archers.

Loki watched them leave, face thoughtful, before turning back to where Sigunn stood, her lips white.

"That was . . .enlightening." His tone softened as he neared her. "I think you're right to be fearing that man."

"I think so, too." Her eyes narrowed as she added tightly, "I wonder what my father would have to say about it." She looked away, and then down at the floor.

"Do you mean to ask him?"

He could see the muscles in her neck tighten. "I think I must."

He reached out and touched her shoulder; it was trembling beneath his hand.

"Sigunn?" He bent his head to look into her averted face. He asked, "'Victory-Bringer'?"

Her eyes rose to meet his, and then slid past him to stare unseeing at the far wall, her jaw tight. "It is a false name."

In her eyes, he could see the gates closing, the walls rising, shutting away the warmth and light. There would be no more truth today.

She said softly, "I must go."

"The queen did not truly send for you. He was lying."

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. "I know."

As she moved to walk past him, he said, quietly, "I enjoyed the game."

She looked at him then, and for an instant the gates cracked opened, and her eyes suddenly glistened with unshed, unsought tears. She whispered, "As did I."

He bent toward her. "Perhaps later, we may. . .finish it?"

Her shoulders rose and fell with a painful heave. Soft, bitter sorrow threaded itself through her voice. "No, my lord. You must flee me. I bring no victory. I bring only. . ." Her breath caught, and she whispered, "Only flames and blood."

She turned and left him, her heels tapping urgently against the stone floor.

Loki walked forward a few steps and then bent, retrieving the fallen horsehead dagger. For a moment, he held it, his other hand curved over it in a gesture clearly meant to wipe away its existence. But as he looked down at it, suddenly his fingers closed tightly around its hilt, and, instead, he thrust it down into his belt.

* * *

They had passed through a vaulted nave out onto the Approach when Thor's steps slowed. When he halted completely, Fandral looked over at him inquiringly; ahead, Sif turned and lifted a brow. He pointed at the guard's back, carving a tiny cross into the air with the tip of his finger; it was a battlefield signal:  _Stay with him_. Sif nodded, and continued up the hall at the guard's heels.

"So, Sif will dance attendance upon the Mad Guard, and we will now do . . .what?" Fandral rested one hand on his sword hilt. "Truly, this has been an odd day. Who agrees with me?"

Thor was staring after the retreating guard.

_I need Loki for this. I can't pursue this any further until I know what he knows._

"We'll go back to the courtyard."

He turned on his heel and strode back up the hall the way they had come. Behind him, he heard Fandral ask quizzically, "Because that is such a terribly amusing place?"

Thor didn't answer. His steps increased in speed until Fandral was hard pressed to stay with him. His mind was circling furiously.

_The guard and his shadow went straight to Loki. What has Loki to do with this? What 'private matter'? Why did that guard go straight to Loki?_

They reached the Court of Archers just as the lady was leaving it. She gave them a startled glance and a short curtsey, and then murmured, "Good day, my lords," before continuing up the corridor like an arrow shot from a taut bow. Looking after her, Fandral said, "She has a dangerous air about her. Who is she? How have I never noticed her before?"

"There are many flowers in Asgard's fields," Loki's voice was cool as he emerged from the courtyard, settling a black cloak over his shoulders. He shot Fandral a glance. "You cannot be expected to pluck them all."

"She's one of mother's handmaidens." Thor said absently. He was looking after her, as well, but his face held a thoughtful frown, which deepened as he transferred it to Loki. "What were you doing here with her?" he asked.

Loki drew his head back, brow creasing as he absorbed the abruptness of the question. Finally he said coldly, "Playing games."

The air between them thickened with a tension that made Fandral stir uncomfortably. Lightly, he said, "You're a bold man to play games with a miniature Valkyrie."

Thor frowned at him. "A what?"

"Well, that hair, and those dark eyes. She looks rather like a Valkyrie, from an old story. Although of course to really play that part she'd have to grow three heads taller and twice as broad across the . . ."

Loki's sudden frozen silence penetrated even Fandral's wit. He pointed one finger at Fandral's chest, his eyes so intent and blazing that the swordsman took a step backward.

He raised his hands. "Oh, come now. I did not mean to offend. . ."

"You're right."

"I am?"

"Not a Valkyrie, though. No. . .something else. Something out of an old story."

He turned again, taking three paces down the hall before spinning on his heel and facing them, his face abstracted, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of the horsehead dagger as he murmured, "He called her 'Victory-Bringer'. I've heard that. . .or read it. Where?" He shook his head, eyes narrowed and far away. ""Flames and blood. . .'"

"Loki? Brother?" Thor heard the frustration in his own voice. "You're walking a path where we're not following."

Loki's head snapped up and his eyes focused on Thor with sudden attention, as if he'd been called back from a far distance. The abstracted puzzlement disappeared and the familiar cool mockery returned.

"This isn't a path either of you can follow." He turned and began walking away.

"Loki! I wanted to speak with you about that guard."

Loki did not pause. Over his shoulder he said, "I'm certain you don't require my assistance. I leave that problem entirely to you."

"Where are you going?" Thor was shouting now.

For a moment they heard only his footfalls as he moved rapidly away. But then his voice came back to them, sharp and cold. "The Lore Vault."

He disappeared through the archway at the corridor's end.

Fandral's brow furrowed. "The Lore Vault? Of all the odd things that have happened this day, that right there now takes the prize as the oddest."

Thor shook his head, looking back the way Loki had gone. "Loki knows his own business."

_He didn't want to answer my questions. . ._

"For an instant there I thought he was going to make it his business to take my head off."

"You know he would not."

"Do I? I don't feel as confident as you appear to be. But, no matter. . ." Fandral surveyed the deserted hall, and then threw up his hands. "By Odin! It's like a child's game of Choices. Who shall we follow after now? The Lovely Maiden, The Enigmatic Prince, or the Crazed Guard?"

Thor frowned at him. "Sif has the guard. And I will deal with Loki. But the maiden now. . ." he looked at Fandral sharply. "Did you see the way he looked at her?"

"Which one of them?"

"The guard, of course. He could not keep his eyes from her. And it was not because she looks like a Valkyrie!"

Fandral's face turned serious as he nodded slowly. "Yes, I saw."

Thor crossed his arms over his chest, tapping a closed fist against his bicep. "She's a handmaiden; she will have rooms here in the palace."

"True. And that benefits us how?"

Thor grinned suddenly, a tight, humorless smile. "Perhaps it's time we set a trap." He looked over at Fandral and said, "Find out where her rooms are located. Discreetly!"

Fandral bowed extravagantly. "When am I not?'

"Always?" Thor was moving down the hall, with quick, angry strides.

Fandral called after him, "Where are you going then?'

"To speak with my brother!"

* * *

Deep beneath the Palace's westernmost gardens, the Lore Vault rested, carved into solid bedrock. To reach it, a winding stair led down from a humble, stone-arched entrance to a single door, hewn from the living rock and hinged and bound with straps of dull, metallic uru. It had no latch. On its bare surface the  _Valknut_  was deeply inscribed, and inlaid with tiny metallic slivers, likewise uru, breathed upon by Odin himself.

Loki stroked his fingertips across the symbol, leaving behind a faint greenish glow that faded as the door sensed his presence and his identity, and quietly swung open with a subdued thud. The room beyond was layered with shadow, the dark silhouettes of tall, curving shelves and platforms merging with the faint checkered lines of the polished tiles on the floor. Shafts of brilliant light, falling from the carefully placed lightwells in the garden above, pierced the darkness like the blades of angels' swords.

He paused in the door, leaning into an onrushing torrent of potent memories. He had loved this place once. Here he had first realized his own potential for mastery; here he had always been the stronger warrior.

A short flight of broad, stone steps led down into the room. As he descended them, Loki could smell the dust, the stale unused quality of the air. No one had been in this chamber for a very long time.

_(His father's warm hand resting on the back of his neck. His boy's eyes looking up, up into Odin's face as his father gestured outward with the other hand, across the room. His father's voice, speaking. "You must not neglect the lore; only in understanding the lore can you truly understand your people. And in understanding them you become worthy to rule them.")_

He rolled his shoulders back, shaking away the hand of memory. Pausing for a moment, balanced in one of the shafts of light, his eyes narrowed as he searched his mind, his recollections.

_Victory-Bringer. . ._

_Where have I read that? Somewhere, in an old, old tale. . . a story of war and fire._

_Flames and blood. . ._

He moved forward, passing among the quiet shelves, welcoming the memories as a guide, and yet still despising them, his jaw set and tense.

( _Thor's voice, pitched high with youth: "Why is this place locked up like a treasure hoard?." Odin's voice, warm with amusement, answering, "The lore is a treasure, my son. It is in these things that we find the heritage of Asgard, just as the Weapons Vault guards our might and valor as a people. This is who we are." His own hand, young and untried, so young, gliding over a folio's binding, his senses drinking in the smell of tanned kid and ancient parchment. . .)_

On a shelf, in the furthest corner of the room, he found the book, laden with dust, its cover bent and cracked with age. It looked as if no one had removed it from this place since he himself had read it as a child, his finger skimming along the base of the runes, his lips moving as he sounded out the unfamiliar words.

He carried it to a table, sweeping his hand over the surface to activate its glow. Looking at the book with the eyes of man rather than boy, he could see that it was a relic of a darker, wilder Asgard. Its binding was raggedly sewn with that looked like animal sinew-goat perhaps-and the tanner had done an indifferent job with the leather of the cover. And, he saw now, the book was so antiquated that its cover was blank but for the deeply scored runes of its title, so old that it did not bear the mark of Odin.

( _His lips, blowing the dust off the cover; Thor coughing and backing away, laughing. Odin's voice. "That's an ancient one you've found there."_

_"What is it, Father?"_

_"Let me see it. Ah, yes. A book of children's tales, I think.")_

Almost reluctantly, he opened it, sliding his fingers with care across the yellowed vellum. He remembered the story now, the sad, haunted tale of a vanished people. He knew what he was going to find.

_So, Lady. Now I see why you do not fear the jotun._

There, on the first leaf, an engraved picture of a woman, her hair flying in an unseen wind, her body engulfed in flames.

The Victory-Bringer.

* * *

Thor plunged down the winding stair, taking the steps two at a time. With every stride he took, the pressure behind his eyes had increased, the band of worry clenching in his belly like a belt drawn too tight. The scene in the Court played itself over his mind-the odd twisting of the guards' head and neck, the white face of the maiden, and Loki's cold, cold eyes, his voice saying, 'Have you come to collect the debt?'.

_What debt? What has he done?_

"Loki!" he shouted, pushing open the door to the Vault with such force that it rattled on its hinges.

A dark figure was leaning over a table on the far side of the room, intently studying an ancient leather folio. As Thor strode toward him, Loki straightened and lifted his chin.

"Do you require assistance after all?"

Thor planted both fists on the table opposite, and leaned onto them. "Yes, in fact, I do! We need to discuss that guard."

Loki frowned. "I think I made it clear that I was leaving that issue entirely in your hands."

"What do you know of him? He's acting very strangely."

"Your grasp of the obvious is masterful." Loki hesitated, studying Thor closely. The mockery faded from his eyes.

Finally he said, "I know that his name is Theoric Gyrdson. That he is one of the Bodyguard. That fate has been most unkind in bestowing on him a particularly unpleasant father." His mouth tightened slightly. "And, at least for now, he is betrothed to Lady Sigunn."

"Really?" Thor paused, his gaze bending even more sharply on Loki's face. "What more?."

Loki raised a brow. "More?"

Thor thumped the table with his fist. "Yes, more! You know more about this! You said it was a private matter!"

"I did not say it was  _my_  private matter."

"Loki, don't talk to me in riddles! What of the gray shadow? Tell me about it!" Thor knew that his voice was rising, that the frustrations of the morning were boiling too close to the surface, that the worry was edging toward fear.

_What do you know about this, Loki? What have you done?_

Loki raised his head, looking at Thor through eyes that had grown flat and cold. After a moment, as the chill made itself felt even through Thor's hot anger, he straightened as well, and suddenly they were two warriors facing one another on a field of battle.

"You said something like that earlier."

"Yes, because that guard has something to do with it!"

"And therefore I do as well?" Loki's voice was low and dangerous.

Thor pressed his lips together angrily, shaking his head. "No, not necessarily, but. . .that guard came to you. . ."

"And so now you have come to me as well. Of course. And why have you come here, you with your Hammer and your rage?" His eyes flashed at Thor with a sudden bleak intensity. Slowly he nodded. "Or perhaps I already know the answer to that question."

"Well, you. . ."

Loki interrupted him, his voice hard, keen, a dagger's edge. "Do you know why I am chained? Why I walk in shackles even though all of Asgard thinks I am free?"

Thor blinked, and shook his head impatiently. "That has nothing to do with. . ."

"Answer me! Do you know?"

Thor felt a chill gather around his heart. The anger and frustration left him abruptly. Slowly he said, "I think I do."

"Tell me then."

"Why? Why do you wish to open those wounds?" He lowered himself into the chair, and stared down into the table's soft light. He knew he should be rejoicing: Loki was talking to him, Loki was talking  _with_  him, the first real conversation they had shared since Loki had returned, and yet he felt as if he were walking a narrow plank balanced over a deep chasm. As if he were going to fall. Any moment now.

Loki walked around the table, and stood before him. The silence stretched unbearably, and finally Thor looked up into his brother's face. Quietly, Loki said, "Tell me."

"It is because. . .because our father is not certain. . ." His voice trailed away.

"Yes, not certain." Loki spun away, walking over to stand in a pool of light. He tipped his head back to stare up into the lightwell's shaft, the lines of his neck taut and corded. Then he looked over at Thor, his mouth settling into a grim and bitter line.

"Not certain of what? After I have submitted myself to untold humiliation and pain, after I have done everything he demanded of me to atone for my actions, the Allfather is not  _certain_  of what?"

Thor's hand curled into a fist. "Curse it, Loki! He is not certain of your loyalty."

"That's right." Loki nodded, his lips twisting into a grimace that was nothing like a smile. "There is no oath I can swear, no punishment I can endure, that will convince Odin of my loyalty to this Realm. And yet, you are always there, with warmth in your eyes, to call me 'brother' and oh so patiently seek me out, yearning with all your heart after the days that are past."

Thor looked down at his hands. "That's true."

"Yes, except that now, when there is the suggestion of something amiss, here you've come, thundering down the stairs to confront me."

Thor stood abruptly. "Loki, I must know what is between you and that guard!"

"And if I tell you that there is nothing between us, that I have already given you, just now, the sum total of my knowledge of him?"

"All of it?"

"All that I can."

Thor stared at him helplessly. He shook his head again. "And between you and the maiden?"

"Ah, yes. Lady Sigunn." Loki lifted one hand and thrust it through his hair. He looked back at Thor with a humorless smile. "Do you know, when I first encountered her, I thought, 'Here is the only soul in all of Asgard who does not fear the  _jotun_.' Because she does not. Interesting, yes?"

Thor shrugged, his eyes bleak.

"But I was wrong about that. For of course, you also do not fear the _jotun_."

"You know that I don't."

Loki turned suddenly, taking a stride forward to stand directly before him, staring into his face. "No, the frost giant holds no terrors for you, but nevertheless you fear me! Always you watch me, a worried frown on your face! You fear that my actions, whether good or ill, will bring further disgrace upon the sacred House of Odin!"

Thor's eyes were startled, aghast. "No, I don't. That's not how I. . ."

"Yes, you do. You've come down here, breathing fire, haven't you? Because if there is some danger to the Realm, some problem in the palace, it must be the work of Loki! And all the warmth of brotherhood is gone from your eyes!" He leaned closer, his voice dropping, his eyes intent.

"Tell me that you considered, for even a moment, the slightest possibility that my actions in this matter have been entirely honorable."

The words hung there, pointed and sharp, before sliding between Thor's ribs like the keenest of blades. Loki's eyes held his, demanding truth with a force that sucked the air from between them and left the cold vacuum of frozen space.

 _Could this be true? Did I consider it?_   _Surely I considered it!_

Thor heard his own voice cracking as he answered, "Loki, I . . .I did not."

Loki's eyes blazed with pain and icy fury. "I thank you for that honesty, Odinson."

"Loki. . ."

Loki twisted away. From the surface of the table, he scooped up the fragile folio. When he turned back, his face had settled into cold, sculpted planes, the expressionless features of a stone carving. "And I thank you for another service you have rendered me."

Only his warrior's courage gave Thor the fortitude to continue to look into his brother's eyes. "What is that?"

Loki's fingers tightened around the book. "I have a choice before me, two different paths I can walk. And now I find that you have made my choice very easy. So I thank you. . .Thor."

Thor closed his eyes. How often in the dreadful days had he wished to hear his brother speak his name? How had he looked forward to hearing it again? And now it entered his heart like a poisoned dart, and lodged there.

_Do I truly look for only evil from Loki? Do I truly expect no honor from him?_

Loki was striding away, his cloak a sweep of darkness in his wake. Thor took a step after, to follow, to explain, to make it right. But, as Loki approached the door, he rammed his fist upward, twisting it in a movement so violent that it gave Thor pause, and he could feel the wave of power that filled the room, hurling the scrolls and books from the shelves and into a swirling maelstrom of parchment and leather. As he lifted his arms to shield his face, he saw Loki stumble against the doorframe, his whole body contorted in wracking pain. He shouted his brother's name, but Loki straightened his shoulders, found his feet, and walked out the door.

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The most dreadful monster in all of Asgard. . .

**_Storm's Eye_ **

Part 6/20

_In the stable, and a Lady's chambers. . ._

As they approached the throne room, Sif became aware that the guard's steps were slowing. Her gaze sharpened; she saw his shoulders tense, and the muscles in his arms knotted as if he were fighting invisible bonds. Brows lowered, she took two quick strides, so that she pulled even with him, and glanced over at his face. He was staring at the ground, unseeing, and a stream of barely audible muttering emerged from his lips.

". . .cannot allow you to show yourself. . .cannot allow. . ."

He came to an abrupt stop, swaying on the balls of his feet, and then, slowly, twisted his head to look over at Sif through slitted eyes.

"Are you well?" she asked, inwardly cursing the foolishness of the question. He was clearly not.

"No, Lady. May we stop? I must sit for a moment."

He stumbled, stiff-legged, into a deep alcove lined with benches, screened from the bright sunlight slanting into the Approach by a trellised screen covered in blooming bilberry vines. The sweet scent caressed Sif's face as she warily followed the guard into the shadowed recess.

He threw himself down upon a bench and sat hunched over, forearms across his thighs. She could hear his ragged breathing. For several long minutes, she watched as his head hung lower and lower, until finally she ventured, "Perhaps we should go to the Healing Room. . ."

"No. . ." he mumbled. "I can master him."

Sif frowned, and leaned closer. "Did you say. . .master? Master whom?"

"He. . .Him. . ." His head wobbled slightly from side to side. A grim, ghastly chuckle boiled up from his throat. "My father. . ."

"You can master your father?"

"No. No. My father. . ." Both hands reached out and then clenched his knees, so tightly that the knuckles cracked. "My father said I would be strong enough to keep him in check."

His body convulsed, and he laughed again, and the tone of the laughter deepened and stretched and slowed, until Sif felt a sickness churning in her belly from the sound of it. She took a step back, every instinct warning her; the unmistakeable stink of danger filled the air.

The hanging head suddenly skewed and swiveled to look up at her. The eyes were glaring red.

"But," the voice croaked, "my father was wrong."

Sif raised her blade, lunging forward to strike as the figure before her surged off the bench. But she was enfolded in a cloud of stinging, burning smoke, and then there was only blackness and furious heat.

* * *

Sigunn slipped into the stable, pulling the doors shut behind her to block out the bright noonday light, welcoming the cool dimness inside. She piled her small bundle of clothing and bedroll against the half-wall that separated the tackroom from the rest of the stable, and then, after a moment's inspection, lifted a polished bit and bridle off one of the pegs on the wall, and disappeared down the side passageway.

She did not notice, in the quiet stillness, the dark figure leaning against the wall, merged with the deepest shadows near the door; his eyes glittered faintly as they shifted to gaze thoughtfully at her small roll of gear.

After a slow passage of several minutes, Sigunn reappeared with a large red stallion in tow, a quilted saddle-pad of brilliant emerald green upon his back. Carefully she pulled Bruni's saddle off its post, grunting slightly under the weight as it fell awkwardly against her and thinking wistful thoughts about the usefulness of stablemen. At the tethering post, Bruni watched her with ears pricked, his whole bearing alight with the anticipated delight of a run. Reaching up to her full height, Sigunn slung the saddle onto this back. As she pushed against his broad body, tightening the girth with all her strength, she muttered, "Bruni- _hestr_ , have you always been this tall?"

She scooped up her bundle and began attaching it to the back of the saddle. Her fingers were knotting the last of the fastenings when she realized that something was winking out at her in the stable's dim light. There, slid neatly in among the folds of her rolled cloak, was the hilt of a bronze dagger, fashioned in the shape of a horse's head.

For a moment she stared at it, as the tight heat of sudden, unbidden tears gathered under her eyelids . She turned slowly, to see him walking toward her with his easy warrior's stride. His eyes caught the scant light and gleamed at her.

"You might need it, on your journey." His voice was even, but she caught the question nevertheless.

"I might." She tried to smile. "Though why are you so certain, sir, that I am off on a journey?"

He gestured toward the bedroll with one flick of a finger. Sigunn couldn't help smiling then, a real smile, and she lifted her eyes toward the stable's ceiling in self-mockery. "Pardon me, my lord. That was too easy."

Loki grinned, a tight flash of humor that faded as he added, "I knew you were leaving as soon as you mentioned your father, earlier, in the Courtyard."

Sigunn looked away, then. "Yes, of course." Her eyes returned to the dagger and she reached out to touch it. "Thank you. I. . .I was very sorry to lose it."

He smiled. "As a memento?"

"Something like that, yes. As something very beautiful."

He walked over to Bruni, and caught the horse's bridle, running his hand along the sleek neck. A breath of silence descended; Bruni's bridle clinked as he lowered his nose and bumped it against Loki's chest. Sigunn felt her heart tighten.

"Loki," she said, voice low. "I spoke truth to you earlier. You must flee me."

"Must I? Are you so very dangerous?" He stepped closer to her, so that her head tipped back to hold his gaze, and the contrast between their statures was suddenly so obvious that she smiled again, reluctantly.

"As one who knows much of me," he said, "surely you are aware that I am fond of . . .risky ventures."

She shook her head, and turned away, speaking so softly that he almost missed the words, "You must not venture with me."

He studied her back, the line of her neck. "You are cruel, Lady."

She looked back at him, startled. "Cruel?"

"To deny me the thrill of risk when you yourself pursue it so avidly."

A smile quirked her lips. "I assure you, my lord, I do not chase after danger!"

"But you do. With blithe confidence, apparently. Even in the brevity of our acquaintance, I've come to know you too well to call it foolhardy rashness."

She laughed. "I hope not. That would be unkind of you, and I would have to unlearn all your songs." Then her face grew serious as she said, "But what risk is this, that I am so blithely, foolishly pursuing?"

Loki ran his hand along Bruni's neck once more, before looking over at her and asking,

"How far is it? To your father's lands?"

"Three day's ride."

Loki nodded thoughtfully. "Three day's journey. And you mean to ride alone."

It wasn't really a question, but Sigunn responded anyway, taking a few more steps away, and then turning back to say, her voice vaguely defensive, "As I have in the past. And no doubt will do again."

Loki pointed toward the south, both brows raised now. "Ah, no doubt. Even though the mountains are haunted by wolves. . ."

Sigunn lifted her chin.

". . .and infested with trolls, whose actions, should they encounter an unaccompanied maiden, would be decidedly unchivalrous."

He left Bruni's side, walking toward her with deliberate strides, his eyes fastened on her face. "Truly, Lady, you fear no monsters."

"Well, that's not precisely tr. . ."

"Wolves? Trolls?"

Almost reluctantly, Sigunn said, "No."

He was only a stride away now; his gaze unrelenting as he added, " _Jotnar_?"

Sigunn's lips parted with her indrawn breath. She whispered, "No."

"And why is that? For you must know that there is no other lady in Asgard who would walk and talk with me as you have done these past days, who would stand here alone with me in a darkened stable," he reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers against her upper arm, "and bear my touch without a tremble."

"I have no cause for fear," Sigunn said.

"Will you finish our game, and tell me why? Why do the monsters hold no sway over you?"

Sigunn's eyes flashed at him. "Do you number yourself among the wolves and trolls? You are no monster."

He inclined his head. "That may be true, or then again it may not. But what of the rest? Three days' journey, alone, riding fearless amongst the dangers of the wild mountains. How can that be?"

And so here it was. The deepest truth, the bottomless heart of Sigunn Vidardottir.

She looked into his eyes and said, "Because the most dreadful monster in all of Asgard is I myself."

* * *

At the juncture of two halls leading into the palace's north tower, a large sculpture of a raven gazed broodingly down on any passersby beneath. Lounging insouciantly against its carved pedestal, Fandral nodded in greeting as Thor slid in beside him. He pointed with his chin down the quiet hall, toward a humble, arched doorway near the far end.

"The abode of Lady Sigunn," he said.

Thor's jaw flexed. His face was tight and stern, and, scanning it briefly, Fandral felt his own mood darken. Something was obviously very wrong.

"Is she there?" Thor asked.

"I believe so. And she is not alone. I heard a male voice, when I walked  _discreetly_  by a few minutes ago." He raised a brow at Thor.

"She has a man in her rooms?" Thor frowned. The queen's maidens were, by the very nature of their position, fanatically devoted to their purity both in body and reputation. There were very few men in the court who could boast of having ever been invited to view the inside of a handmaiden's chamber. He glanced over at his friend: Fandral was probably one of those few.

Fandral had drawn a dagger from his belt and was absently studying his own reflection in it. "Unless she has suddenly developed a bass rumble."

Thor shook his head. Then, huffing out a quick breath, he strode up the hall toward the door, Fandral a step behind.

Stopping in front of the door, Thor raised his hand to knock, and then froze, his eyes widening. Silently he took a step back and gestured toward the door latch. Leaning forward, Fandral studied it and then looked up at Thor with a grim twist to his lips. A black ring encircled it, and the latch itself was misshapen and drooping, as if it had been laid in a hot fire.

Thor hefted Mjolnir. Fandral stepped back, swinging his arm across his waist in a gesture of exaggerated invitation, and then drew his sword. He nodded his readiness, and Thor cocked back his arm and tipped Mjolnir against the door, the lightest of taps.

It blasted open, slamming into the wall behind with a deafening bang.

Thor and Fandral sprang into the room, and then stopped short, each of them scrambling out of the other's way.

There, in the center of the chamber, stood Sif, with the erstwhile Crazed Guard at her side, and for a moment the four stared at each other.

Finally, Thor asked, "Sif? What are you doing here?"

The guard stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "Forgive me, my lords. It was I who implored Lady Sif to accompany me here."

"Because?"

"I am very concerned for Lady Sigunn."

Thor's eyes swept the room, a small, tidy place warmly lit with the sunshine that poured through a large window in the far wall. But there were signs of . . .something, anomalous exceptions to the neatness. A wardrobe door slightly ajar, held open by a crumpled, discarded dress. A pair of slippers lying askew, partially under the wardrobe as if they'd been hurriedly kicked off. A small tumbler, filled with flowers, knocked over on one of the tables, and left to lie in a forlorn pile of stems and dripping water, as if there had been no time to set it right. Signs of a hasty, unhappy departure.

He turned his eyes back to the guard and said, "Again, because?"

"She is my betrothed, and she is. . .not here."

"I can see that. Where is she?"

Sif reached out and handed him a square of parchment, inscribed with a few lines of hurried script. "It appears that she has fled."

Thor examined the note, and his face darkened. Holding it up, he growled, "This is addressed to the queen. How is it that you felt so bold as to open and read it?"

The guard's face blanched, and he bowed again, quickly. "I hope the queen will pardon me. And you, also, my lord. My only defense is the desperation I feel to know Lady Sigunn's whereabouts."

Fandral slid one finger against his sword hilt and observed mildly, "As her betrothed, I would think you would be privy to that sort of information."

The guard angled a quick, fierce glare at him, hurriedly stifled. "Of course, my lord. Normally, I would know. But she is very afraid, and not acting rationally. . ."

Thor looked up from the note and tapped it with one finger. "She doesn't sound afraid here. She sounds angry."

"Angry. Afraid. Both, I suspect. And so she has fled."

"And what is it that has inspired this anger and fear?"

Sif spoke, abruptly, shifting her weight, her voice suddenly loud in the quiet room.

"Loki."

Thor's head snapped around, his eyes sharp. "How so?"

Theoric walked over to the window, planting one curled fist on the sill. "I'm sorry, my lord, but Prince Loki has been pursuing Sigunn, in a most determined fashion. Despite his knowledge of the pledge between her and I."

A sudden vision of the maiden's white face and stark eyes imploded in Thor's mind, and he saw her quick, almost running steps as she left the Court of Archers. He heard his own voice and Loki's cold answer.

_"What were you doing here with her?"_

_"Playing games."_

His grip on Mjolnir tightened. His voice thickened as he said, "She says nothing of that in this note."

Sif shook her head impatiently. "Of course not. A handmaiden would not be so indiscreet as to accuse a prince of impropriety in a note that could fall into anyone's hands." She waved a hand at the guard's back. "But Theoric has told me. Loki is obsessed with her. He will do anything to have her."

Thor's shoulders stiffened. He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping. "He told you this? After we left you in the Approach?" His voice lowered further. "And you believe this tale?" He shot a glance over at the guard. He seemed perfectly at ease now, but Thor remembered his twisted movements, his raging eyes.

Sif nodded. Her eyes were cold.

Thor stared down at her. His every instinct, the voice of years of friendship and camaraderie, of battle shared and victories won, counseled him to accept Sif's words without question. And yet. . .

He saw Loki standing before him, eyes blazing.

_"My actions in this matter have been entirely honorable."_

He glanced down again, at the note in his hand. Then, he looked directly into Sif's face and said, "Go down to the stable, and see if she is still there, or if there is any sign of her."

Sif nodded, a strange flash flickering through her eyes. "And if she is?"

"Don't allow her to leave. I wish to speak with her."

Theoric pivoted from the window. "I will go with her, my lord."

Thor shook his head. "No, you won't. We'll wait here for Sif to return, with or without Lady Sigunn, and you'll stay here with us. I still have questions for you."

Theoric's face stiffened; his eyes slid over to Sif, but her face remained expressionless, and after a moment he lowered his head in submission.

"As you wish, my lord."

Sif leaned toward Thor, eyes intent. "And if Loki is with her?"

All of them looked at Thor: Fandral's face carefully neutral, though his mouth was grim; Theoric angry and pale, and Sif. . .

Thor frowned, bending a troubled eye on Sif. The calm indifference that was the standard mien of a warrior awaiting orders was suddenly entirely absent. Her face was shifting, her jaw tightening as if she were struggling to hold back a terrible, eager smile.

Thor straightened. "If Loki is there. . .he will act honorably."

He tilted his head toward the door. "Go."

Sif saluted him, fist to chest, and then turned and ran lightly out the door. None of the three men in her wake saw the red gleam growing in her eyes.

Once out in the hall, she slowed, the smile free now to twist itself across her features.

"Honorably?" she hissed, her voice no longer her own. "I think not, black prince. You will rue the day you chose to warm yourself at my fire!"

Then, looking up, she saw, at the end of the hall, a group of four guards striding in unison, bound, no doubt, on relieving some of their fellows on duty elsewhere in the palace. Her smile broadened.

"You there, all of you," she called. "Come."

As they approached, and stood to attention before her, she composed her face with difficulty, and said, "You will accompany me. Prince Thor has charged me with a task, and I may possibly need your aid."

* * *

Into the pool of silence spreading out from her words, Loki lifted his left hand, and for the first time Sigunn realized that he was holding something: a book. He opened it carefully, spreading the pages with his long fingers, and tilted it upward so that she could see the image, there on the old, old vellum: a woman bathed in flames.

She stared at it, her eyes widening, her breath catching in her throat, her mind spinning. Dimly she heard him say, with a low, gentle harmonic in his voice that she would remember later with wonder, "I see no monster here."

She looked up at him, struggling to lift her chin under the weight of her tears. "Why do you ask me questions to which you already know the answer?"

He smiled. "Forgive me, Lady. It is a. . . tactic of mine. For then I always learn if the answer to my question is truly the one I have surmised, or if I have been led astray by my own fancy." He paused, took one step nearer. "But I am right this time, am I not?"

She nodded, reaching out to touch the page with the tips of two fingers, swallowing with difficulty as she whispered, "Where did you find this?"

"In the Lore Vault. I read it as a child."

"And does it tell of the. . ." Sigunn's voice trailed away as Loki's head suddenly snapped upright, and he stepped away from her. At that moment, the stable doors were flung open, letting in a flood of brilliant sunlight. Bruni moved uneasily, bobbing his head with a nervous jerk that pulled the tether rope taut, and Sigunn reached up to lay her hand along his shoulder.

Through the doors strode Lady SIf, her eyes fixing immediately on Sigunn with a ferocity that brought a puzzled frown to Sigunn's face. Her acquaintance with Sif was slight, for the activities of a warrior rarely coincided with the gentle routines of a queen's handmaiden.

Sif's eyes slid to Loki, and her lips stretched into a sardonic smile.

"Going somewhere?" she asked. Her eyes flickered back toward Sigunn. "This seems like a rather abrupt leave-taking. Are you so eager to see your father?"

Sigunn's frown deepened. "My father?"

Beside her, Bruni lifted his front hooves restively. He turned his head, focusing one eye on Sif, and his ears flicked backward. Sigunn tore her eyes from Sif's strange smile and leaned her body against the horse, running her hand along his breast to calm him.

Loki's face had grown still, his eyes bemused. He studied Sif's face as she drew near. "Good day, Sif." He glanced over at Sigunn.  "And here is another person interested in your father. Truly he must be a paragon of a man."

Sif did not answer. Her light steps had brought her within two strides when Bruni, eyes rolling white, suddenly pulled up into a half-rear, his forefeet leaving that ground to strike out at her. Sigunn gasped, reaching for his bridle on instinct, and then the gasp exploded into a scream as she saw Sif pull a dagger out of her belt and strike at Loki's bare throat with brutal, unnatural speed.

Loki was already moving, lifting his left forearm to block the blow. The dagger's edge scraped along the metal vambrace, and then plunged into the leather binding of the book he still held in his hand. At once he twisted the book sideways, wrenching the dagger out of her hand. The ancient leather groaned and cracked, and Loki's mouth tightened and his eyes flashed.

"This seems a little extreme, even for you, Sif," he growled, flinging the book aside to grasp her wrist as she stabbed at his eyes with stiffened fingers. Her face twisted into an expression of mindless hatred, and he saw, deep in her eyes, a red, smoky flare.

She writhed like a striking snake, breaking his hold on her and reaching across her own body to draw her sword. With a green flicker, a dark, curved blade appeared in Loki's hand, and he struck out with a sideways slash.

She leaped back to evade it, and then circled around, weaving the sword's tip, looking for an opening. Loki had conjured another dagger, and, as Sif lunged forward, he caught her blade between both of his, trapping it and forcing it upward. The motion brought Sif's body against his, her face only inches away. As she strained to free the blade, he stared into her eyes, and saw them flare up wholly red. He thrust backward, disengaging, and twisting aside, so narrowly escaping a slashing diagonal strike of the sword that he felt it catch in his cloak. He whirled, punching his own blade upward, and she ducked back to evade it, falling against Bruni's shoulder. At once the stallion reared, his nostrils flared wide. Sif ducked gracefully under the flailing hooves, twisting to the side to avoid being struck. Sigunn's hand fell away from the horse's bridle, and she stumbled over Sif's ankle, tumbling backward. Her head struck the corner of the tackroom's half-wall with an audible thunk.

At the sound, Sif straightened, body rigid, her eyes riveted on Sigunn as she pushed herself up away from the wall, one hand pressed to a bleeding cut along her hairline.

A feral hiss issued out of Sif's mouth, a sound so inhuman that Sigunn's eyes widened and she stepped back, pressing her back to the wall. Sif's shoulders hunched; she faltered backward, several steps, toward the stable doors, one hand clutching at her chest, the other folding into a fist against her brow. A rasping whisper bubbled up; her hand stretched out suddenly, imploringly, "Sigunn,  _asta_. . ."

In that instant, Loki reached over his shoulder, ripped off his cloak, and flung it, enveloping Sif in its folds. As she raised her arm to snatch it away, he kicked her full in the ribs, his boot thudding against her armor like a distant thunderclap . She stumbled backward through the doors and fell out into the stableyard.

A sudden movement caught Loki's eye; a group of four guards was standing out in the yard. They froze dumbfounded for a moment as Sif came flying backward out of the door; she gestured toward Loki, and shouted, "Take him!"

The guards hesitated, their eyes going to Loki uncertainly.

"Now!" Sif shouted, the authority in her voice absolute. She was rolling to her feet.

Loki's eyes widened as the guards gathered themselves and came running forward.

Behind him, Sigunn drew in a horrified breath; she slid past him at a run, and grasped the edges of the doors with either hand, slamming them shut. Loki leaped forward and pushed down the bar, dropping into its brackets, and then hooked an arm around Sigunn's waist and whirled her bodily out of reach as two feet of Sif's sword thrust viciously through the narrow gap between the doors. The blade shoved upward against the bar; on the other side, Sif was seeking to push it out of its brackets.

Loki glared at it.

"Right," he said, and then he turned to Sigunn. "I've lost my taste for this game. Change of scene?"

The glare sharpened into cold rage as he saw the blood trickling down along her temple.

"Indeed!" she said, spinning and running back toward Bruni. "They were going to attack you! How dare they?"

Loki followed, stooping as he reached the horse's shoulder, and clasping his hands.

"A mystery to be solved later, I think!"

Sigunn thrust her knee into his interlaced fingers, and he tossed her up into the saddle, turning in the same movement to unclip the tether rope from the red horse's bridle. At once the stallion reared back, eyes wild; only the weight of the familiar rider on his back kept him from bolting in panic. Sigunn gathered up the reins, kicking her feet out of the stirrups and sliding all the way forward in the saddle. As she spun the stallion toward the stable's rear, Loki reached up, grasped the mane at the withers, and swung himself up behind her. They both heard the bar at the doors rattling ominously.

"Now or never, Lady." Loki murmured into her ear. He settled into the saddle, his thighs behind hers, his boots sliding into the stirrups as she kicked the stallion into a full gallop. Behind them, the bar rattled again, and fell.

" _Stikla_ , Bruni," Sigunn cried. " _Hvata! Hvata!_ "

Never had any horse been so ready to run. He plunged down the central passage, neck outstretched and tail streaming. Loki's arm slid around Sigunn's waist, pulling her tightly against him. His other arm appeared over her shoulder, palm turned toward the stable's rear doors. As the stallion approached them, he thrust his arm forward. The doors ahead blew aside like leaves in a summer wind; Sigunn felt Loki's chest heave against her back, the impact on his body as the chains' venom struck him. The stallion raced through, a thundering red phantom, and left the stable far behind.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Odin is compelled to see Loki as he truly is. . .

_**Storm's Eye** _

Part 7/20

_Before the High Seat of Odin. . ._

A flood of light fell into the throne room of Odin, spilling from the glassy dome centered high above the Hlidskjalf, and pooling outward until its glow was defeated, at last, by the cavernous size of the room; the concave walls at the far boundaries were draped in shadow. Scarlet banners, emblazoned with the  _Valknut_ , rippled in the breezes that meandered through the vast space, creating restless reflections in the immense pillars that supported the roof. Every detail of the room whispered the siren's song of power, and radiated the royal might of Asgard.

Though the room could host a sizable portion of Asgard's entire citizenry, on this day, as on most days, it was largely empty, save for the open floor directly before the throne, where knots of men and women stood in deceptively casual poses, waiting for their opportunity to approach the Allfather, and present their pleas and requests, and sometimes, their carefully-couched demands. They were courtiers, the nobility of Asgard, and a fluctuating population of their number was always to be found here, every day.

Odin sat in a golden chair on the dais below the High Seat, allowing the radiant fire in a tall, four-legged brazier to warm his back while, before him, two noblemen traded point and counterpoint in increasingly sharp voices. Theirs was a border dispute, involving two estates outside the city walls, a longstanding feud between Houses that should have been resolved three generations past. With difficulty, Odin tamped down his impatience and disdain. This was the daily business of ruling, he reminded himself; this was the duty of the king.

He glanced to his left, where Frigga, surrounded by several of her maidens on a long, low bench, laughed gently at something one of them said. The queen, he surmised, was having a more pleasant day at court than he.

A guard approached him and bowed low, fist to chest. The two noblemen frowned irritably at the interruption, one of them scowling openly, as Odin lifted a finger to stem the tide of talk and nodded at the guard, permission to speak.

"Your majesty, Prince Thor waits without the door, and a party with him. He requests an immediate audience."

The Allfather waved a hand in acquiescence, and the guard marched off. He fixed the men before him with a stern eye, and said, "You are, the two of you, in the wrong, and well you know it. You will sit down at table together, and decide between you in a civilized manner how this land is to be divided. If you do not, then the House of Odin will seize the land, and both of you will be left with nothing. See to it."

The noblemen's faces fell into identical pinched expressions. Odin dismissed them with a brief gesture, a minuscule nod acknowledging their departing bows. As they walked stiffly away, each pointedly ignoring the other, he looked over their heads to see the door to one side of the room swing open with an undignified thud, pushed aside by Thor's broad arms as he strode through. In his wake came the swordsman Fandral, and an armored Bodyguard, and a stony-faced Lady Sif, trailed by four guards, all of whose faces were troubled and somber. A mantle of unease laid itself over the Allfather's shoulders; Thor rarely graced the court with his presence, and, then, only when there was trouble afoot.

The murmuring ebb and flow of talk in the room slowed, as the courtiers and nobles registered first the presence of the crown prince, and then the angry, set angles of his face. Small groups of three or four began to edge their way closer to the High Seat, faces turned politely away but ears obviously straining. Prince Thor had proven to be a difficult puzzle for the ambitious among them: the very openness and good nature that would seem to make him easy prey for hangers-on and dilettantes was accompanied by a keen impatience for intrigue and duplicity that shook off such power-hungry hopefuls with ease. The crown prince surrounded himself with those like himself, and so the courtiers could only circle, in the distance, and muse thoughtfully on the prospect of Thor as king.

On the far edge of the room, one nobleman, craning his neck to see who had entered, commented to another, "Is not that your son?"

The other man leaned forward, eyes narrowing, and then his face went very still, though his fingers nervously smoothed the stiff embroidery adorning his cloak. "It is," he said, slowly. "Pardon me, if you will."

His companion nodded graciously, and, moving with a dignity that concealed his haste, Gryd Braggasson edged his way through the crowd.

Thor strode swiftly through the center of the room, along an elaborately-woven, deeply-piled carpet, its edges glittering with a repeating motif of runemarks embroidered in glowing golden thread by the hand of Frigga herself, and her maidens. As always, in this room, he felt an uncomfortable knot solidifying between his shoulders, an agitation wholly separate from the anger and worry that filled his heart. He deeply disliked the court, with its simpering nobles, smiles on their faces and calculation in their hearts; he vastly preferred the Feast Hall, and the open company of warriors.

As he walked, his mind replayed the frantic burst of conversation that had filled Lady Sigunn's chambers when Sif had returned.

_"He was there with her; he had a horse already saddled."_

_"What happened?"_

_"He was holding her by the upper arm. She called out when she saw me, she tried to break free, and he seized her, and mounted the horse."_

_"What?"_

Sif had been so strange, so stiff and cold, and yet her eyes burned with a fevered glare. And her cloak. . .it had been stained with mud, with bits of grass clinging to it, as if she'd been rolling in the dirt, and yet her tale had included no mention of any struggle. . .

He had studied her long, his mind whirling. This was Sif, his dear friend, his fellow warrior, who had never failed him, and yet, as he looked into her face and listened to her words, he had felt as if he gazed upon an utter stranger. Her spirit toward Loki. . .had she always hated him this much? But surely he would have noticed that!

Theoric had boiled over with rage, shouting that he would go after them immediately. Sif had stepped to his side, with a wild glitter in her eyes, and declared that she would accompany him, and Fandral had observed dryly that all of this seemed a bit of an overreaction, which caused Sif to turn on him and hiss that perhaps seizing a woman was Fandral's preferred method of courtship, and Fandral's face had darkened grimly at the insult. Thor had quelled them with a stern demand that they give him some space to think, and they had all subsided into a surly silence, until finally Thor had said, reluctantly, that this matter must be brought to his father, discreetly, and at once.

As he approached the throne, now, Thor felt an intense reluctance to speak, to acknowledge this tale of Loki's dishonor by giving it voice. There was no proof of any of it, except Sif's word.

_And I don't believe her! Why? She has always been true; why don't I believe her?_

He looked back at her, as she walked beside Theoric, and saw the two of them exchange a strange, enigmatic glance. His heart twisted uneasily.

_Why is she suddenly the Crazed Guard's boon companion?_

And then, with a tightening of his jaw, he remembered the shadow, the gray shadow and Theoric's twisted face and red eyes. And he decided, between one stride and the next, that, regardless of what happened in the next few minutes, he was letting neither the guard nor Sif out of his sight until he had discovered the truth of it, shadow and all.

As he approached, Odin stood, and came down the steps, greeting Thor with a nod.

"Good day, my son."

Thor inclined his head, briefly, said, "Father," and then drew breath to continue when he was forestalled, as Theoric stepped up beside him, bowed low, and said, in a voice that rang through the room, "Great Allfather, we've come to beg your wisdom in a grave matter."

Thor could not prevent himself from shooting a sideways glare at the man, whose temerity truly seemed to know no bounds.

Odin raised his head, observing this with slightly narrowed eyes. Deliberately, he turned his face to Thor and asked, "What matter?"

Thor leaned closer and asked, low-voiced, "Father, if we could withdraw. . .?"

A sudden movement tugged at the corner of his vision, as a richly-dressed nobleman slid into place beside Theoric. He was vaguely aware of a quick urgent muttering between the two of them, but he continued, "This is a matter best discussed outside the court."

"Prince Thor speaks wisely," the nobleman said, bowing deeply as Odin's gaze swept him, "But the matter is most urgent, and requires your word at once, your majesty."

Odin frowned. Once more, he turned to Thor, and said, "What matter, Thor?"

Thor's jaw flexed angrily. He had a sudden vision of the court as a battlefield, and felt he had already lost the first skirmish.

Thor took a step nearer, and began to speak, low and quick, "This guard is betrothed to one of Mother's handmaidens, and she has fled. I sent Sif to the stable, to seek for her there, and while there. . ."

"Prince Loki has taken her!" Theoric spoke, his voice just loud enough to carry to the nearest courtiers. At once a silence began to thread its way through the court, a creeping silence spreading like a drop of black ink in a bowl of clear water.

From her quiet seat below the throne, the queen looked up from the small tapestry in her lap, her needle stilled.

Odin turned one dark eye upon the guard's red, angry face. "Taken her? And why should Loki do any such thing?" His words rippled through the deepening silence.

. .I think he. . ." Theoric faltered, his face paling before the Allfather's penetrating eye.

Silence.

Thor said, loudly, "There is no evidence that he has done anything at all."

"There is my evidence," Sif declared. "I saw him."

A wave of murmuring rolled through the court, cresting and then falling abruptly as Thor turned to her and said, "But perhaps you misunderstood what you saw. Or . . ."

His voice died away. Had he truly been about to accuse Sif of lying?

Odin's face had grown cold. His gaze shifted from Thor to Sif, and back again, and he said, "What did you see, Lady Sif?"

Thor's fists clenched. He was losing this battle on all fronts; his objective had been to bring the story to his father discreetly!

_Curse it! I do not know how to war with words! And since when is Sif numbered among my enemies?_

Frigga walked toward them, her hand to her breast. "Which of the maidens do you speak of?"

Theoric grimaced. "Lady Sigunn, your majesty."

"Sigunn? But. . .I don't think Loki even knows her name. She is the most gentle, quiet lady. Why do you say Loki has taken her?"

Sif turned to her, with a brisk salute. "I saw him, my queen. He pulled her onto his horse, and rode away."

"Surely she meant to go with him?"

"No, your majesty. She was angry and frightened. She was fighting him."

Frigga turned a pale face toward Odin. "There must be an explanation."

Thor growled, deep in his throat, and stepped another stride forward, deliberately turning his back on the court.

"Father," he said, "Mother is right. There is more to this tale than is being told here, I am certain." His voice dropped to a bare whisper. "I spoke with Loki about this lady, very briefly it's true, but nevertheless I do not believe he has any ill intentions toward her."

Odin bent his eye on Thor's earnest face, his own face still. "But you have seen him with this maiden? He does know her?"

Thor shook his head impatiently. "Yes. A little, I think. But I do not think he has somehow . . .stolen her!" He looked over at Sif, and then continued, reluctantly, "I think that Lady Sif has been . . .deceived in what she saw.

Sif shook her head. "I am not a fool, Thor. I know what my own eyes showed me."

"Allfather, he has stolen her!" Theoric's voice rose. "She would never go with him voluntarily!"

The quietness in the Court fell away completely under a muted rumble of whispering voices. All pretense of polite disinterest had vanished, and every eye was turned toward them, some filled with cold suspicion, and some with gloating glee at the prospect of another scandal, and some, a very few, with genuine distress; almost all looked on Thor with disapproval as he spoke in his brother's defense. Thor felt a rising, frustrated rage clutching at this throat; he wanted to strangle the lot of them. How easily they believed this fantastic tale, though it hadn't a wisp of proof, how eager they were to think the very worst the instant that Loki's name was spoken!

 _And are you any better than they, Thor Odinson?_  his deeper thoughts asked him, savagely. He heard a dim echo of Loki's voice, saying, "Tell me you considered, for even a moment, the slightest possibility. . ."

He straightened his shoulders, and swallowed the hot rage, and bent a gaze of such regal hauteur on the courtiers that many of them looked away.

 _How does Loki bear this?_   _The constant slanted looks, the suspicion, the coldness. . ._   _Has it always been this way?_

A movement at his side: his mother stood beside him, regal and still though her hands, clutched together in front of her body, were trembling.

Theoric pressed forward a step, emboldened by the murmurs of the crowd. "I beg of you, Allfather, let me pursue him! He must be stopped. You know what he is!"

The mutters and whispers doubled, and threaded through them Thor could hear the words he dreaded.  _Traitor. Jotun. . ._

Thor rounded on Theoric, voice thundering, "Have a care! You speak of a royal prince of Asgard, not some vagrant courtling! You will cease to. . ."

"Enough."

The Allfather's voice sliced through the swelling tide of sound. He speared Theoric with a cold eye. "You will be still." He looked over the crowd, stifling them. "All of you."

He lowered his gaze to Thor. "I will seek after Loki and this maiden."

Turning, he ascended the steps, to the platform at their summit, and then climbed a final flight of broad stairs that led up to the High Seat itself, the Hlidskjalf, the Place of Seeing. There, he paused for a moment, squaring his shoulders and bending his head as if steeling himself for a mighty effort. Then he spun slowly about, and sat.

(And the Sight takes him.

The Sight is not a tractable creature; riding it is like harpooning a sea serpent and clinging to its slippery, muscled spine as it thrashes and writhes through the deep waters of space and time, as it leaps over infinite chasms of distance. It bucks and twists furiously, and, if he wishes to See, Odin must wrestle it with all his strength and bend it to his will.

But sometimes, the Sight is submissive, and calm, like a mild-eyed bird, and then Odin can direct it with the barest thought.

Today is one of those days.

In a dizzying swoop he passes over the palace towers, and the lesser pinnacles and spires of the city's core, over the stone and metal dwellings in the lower city, the markets and shops, over the barracks of the gate guards, and then the wall itself, its imposing height, from this vantage, a small and laughable thing.

He sees the field of Ida, stretching to the west, a green carpet. The mountains that encircle the Vale of Asgard are punched against the sky, glimmering in the sun's light as if carved from pearl and crystal rather than hard gray rock. Below him now, the estates of the lesser nobles, and the farms and vineyards of Asgard's people.

Through them runs a road, north and south, and the Sight speeds him along above it. The mountains draw nearer, and, on the throne, he frowns. Surely they cannot have come this far so quickly?

But the Sight is almost infallible, when it is willing and eager; rarely does it fail to find its goal. And there, cantering easily along the road bordered by fields green with young grain, a huge red horse and two riders.

The Sight twists and turns and falls, until he can see them, their faces, until he can  _see_  them, for on these rarest of occasions, when the Sight is placid and biddable, it is willing to show him not only how things appear to be, but also, how they truly are.

And so he looks upon the lady, and he sees what she appears to be, a gentle Asgardian maiden clad in simple riding clothes and a white cloak. There is a bandage on her brow, startlingly white against her skin. Then his eye widens, for he also sees what she is.

A maiden, yes. But gentle, no, not for all the Realms, and she is not Asgardian, not of the Asgard that now exists, nor has she ever been. She is a creature out of the oldest lore, a remnant of the Asgard of twenty generations past, a scion of a people that have passed into dusty legend.

She is Idisi, and, in his SIght, she burns with a hot, blue flame.

He looks at her, astonished.

_How can it be that I did not know of her existence?_

And then, with a reluctance that he knows is born of a selfish desire to protect his own heart, he turns the Sight upon Loki.

He has sought Loki before, in the Sight, sought him daily after Loki's fall, he and Frigga both, though the darkness of Yggdrasil's void defeated even the Sight as its most compliant, until Frigga had collapsed upon the Seat, weeping bitterly at the failure. And, when Loki had suddenly reappeared on Midgard, he had Seen him, his joy at the finding turning into shock and horror at the thing his son had become, until he could no longer stand to watch and had turned away.

But the Sight has never before deigned to reveal Loki as he truly is.

_Loki, Loki my son. My son. Oh, my son. . ._

He sees the scars, first, standing out sharply against Loki's blue skin, the delicate tracery of old scars, thin white lines, crisscrossing from childhood, from youth, from those days when Odin had thought him happy, the whip-fine scars wrought by disdain and subtle mockery, by cheerful neglect and ignorant jests. And overlying them, the harsh, red deeply-scored wounds, the rends and gashes of recent, unimaginable pain. Some healing, some oozing the poison of bitterness and regret. He cannot bear to see them, but he compels his heart to look at them, to look at him. His son.

He did not know it was as bad as this.

_No. I knew. But I could not face such knowledge._

And over all, wrapped about the tall, lean body, are the chains, their barbed links dripping with venom. The dreadful, ensorcelled, necessary chains. The chains are tight, wound closer than they were at first, and Odin knows that Loki has been pushing, flexing, fighting against the bonds, using punishing levels of power.

And yet, he rides easily, gracefully, his body held lightly in its nest of pain. He laughs, suddenly, at something the lady has said, and Odin's heart sickens, as he realizes that he has not heard that laugh for such a very long time.

And then the Sight wrenches out of his grasp and forces him to look once more at the burning maiden, and back to Loki in his chains, and suddenly all of Odin's thought is arrested, as his memory stretches into the past, and he recalls the old tales of the Idisi.

For the first time, since his terrible failure at the bifrost, when his own mouth betrayed him and spilled out the negation, the rejection, that followed Loki as he fell into the void, since the dread events that followed, and, most of all, since the ghastly bargain he had made, to safeguard Asgard at the cost of binding his younger son to a road whose final destination could only be destruction: for the first time since all of that, Odin feels a stirring in his heart so unfamiliar that he requires a moment to consciously identify it, the faint green shoot of a tender plant out of frozen ground, so fragile that the slightest errant wind may wither it.

He feels hope.

It is a faint hope, a desperate hope, a hope with little chance of coming to fruition. But it is hope, nonetheless.)

For many long moments, the throne room was absolutely still, every eye fixed on Odin as he sat, immobile, head bent. They saw him stir uneasily, and frown, and tension thickened in the room, congealing into a mass of sidelong looks and tight-lipped whispers.

Then Odin raised his head. His eye was a solid, glowing, opalescent white, and he stared past the far wall of the room, looking out beyond the walls of the city.

"I see him, astride a red horse, and the maiden with him."

The court exploded with a burst of muttering. Frigga's hand went to her throat. Theoric stirred impatiently, and cried out, "You see! He has taken her."

Gyrd intoned, "We must send a party after them."

"No." Odin's voice was stern, and the muttering died at once. "No. For I see her. There is no fear in the lines of her body; there is no anger or hatred in her face."

Theoric's lips thinned and paled with rage. Beside him, Sif's body stiffened, and her eyes flashed red.

The white light drained from Odin's eye, and he turned his gaze down upon Thor and the group behind him. "She rides with him willingly," he said.

"Then he must have enchanted her, or . . .or filled her mind, somehow. We all know he is a powerful sorcerer!" Theoric spit out the final word like a curse.

Thor turned and glared at him. "You know nothing of Loki! His magic doesn't work that way. He uses illusion, and conjuring, and . . .and blasts of power! He cannot invade a living mind. He would not."

Even as he spoke, Thor felt a sinking in his heart, because he had never listened closely when Loki spoke of magic; he'd never really asked his brother how the magic worked. He hoped that he was speaking truth.

Odin descended the steps, his frown deepening as he once again stood before them. In the silence, he studied the guard and the old man, so avid for pursuit, and in his mind's eye he saw a hot blue flame.

Gryd bowed. "In your wisdom, Allfather, surely you can see that they must be brought back to the city."

Odin stared at him until the old man's eyes shifted away. Slowly, he nodded, and turned his eye to Thor. "You will go after your brother, and you will discover the truth in all of this. The truth, Thor."

_For hope. . .hope is such a fragile flower, so easily trodden under a foot put wrong. I must tread carefully. I have walked such a wrong path with Loki. So very wrong._

Thor's eyes narrowed as studied his father's face, his rage suddenly cooled. He saluted, fist to chest. "Yes, Father. The truth."

Theoric moved, a brief surging step aborted by his father's hand on his arm.

"I beg leave," Gyrd said, "for my son to accompany them. For surely he is entitled to pursue his betrothed."

Sif spoke, her voice strong. "There is no need for all to go. I will go with Theoric."

Thor turned to her, his eyes troubled. "We will go together, all of us."

Theoric's hand tightened on his sword.

Odin gestured beyond Sif, to the group of four guards, who stiffened to attention at once, though their eyes shifted uneasily.

"Take the guards, as well, Thor," he said.

Another gust of humming whispers shook the court. Under cover of the surge of noise, Thor leaned closer to his father, and hissed, "And what will be Loki's response, Father, when he sees me approach with a party of armed guards, bent on seizing him?"

Odin's voice was a low murmur, so low that Thor had to strain to catch it. His father's eye bored into his face.

"You must trust me, Thor. You must ask yourself if there is not some  _other_  reason why I would send guards along with you."

For a long moment, Thor remained locked in his father's gaze, and then slowly his face changed, a grim line settled between his brows, and he nodded.

He spun on his heel and gestured toward the door. "We will leave at once. All of us."

He took a running stride forward, but was arrested by Odin's voice once more. "Thor."

He turned back. His mother was pressed to Odin's side, her white face still but her eyes agonized. Quickly returning, he picked up his mother's cold hand, and pressed it to his lips.

"I'll find him, Mother," he murmured. "And I am certain all will be well."

Odin's voice was quiet and very grave. "He is on the south road, aiming toward the wilderness." His gaze was so pointed that Thor understood at once.

"Father," he whispered, his eyes blazing suddenly. "His power is not . . .he is weakened! The mountains are dangerous, and. . ." He glanced back toward the door, where Theoric and Gyrd were following Sif out into the hall. "There is much that is not right about this situation! It is not only his safety at stake, but also that of an innocent lady. Unchain him! You must."

"I cannot. I. . .cannot." Odin pointed toward the door. "Go. Go with all speed. Go!"

* * *

After the first wild gallop, they had exchanged places, because the only possible way to ride double for any length of time was for Sigunn, with her smaller frame, to sit behind the saddle on the bedroll. She perched there, now, a trifle precariously, steadying herself with an arm wrapped lightly around Loki's waist. Her grip tightened momentarily as Bruni's strides shortened, his hooves clicking over a narrow bridge spanning a rushing, rock-strewn stream.

Loki said, over his shoulder, "What a pity we did not think to seize Hrafn by his bridle and bring him along."

"How shortsighted of us. We'll do better next time."

"Next time? Am I to understand that you anticipate these sorts of adventures on a daily basis?" He turned his head further, and his eye glinted at her, his voice softly mocking, "'Gentle Sigunn'."

She chuckled, and then winced as the movement triggered another stab of pain through the wound on her brow. She lifted a hand to press against the bandage that Loki had improvised. After a moment, Loki felt her body stir and tense, her arm about him stiffening as if anticipating a blow.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Suppose my father knows nothing of this debt," she answered. "Or refuses to talk of it with me." Her voice dropped. "Suppose he commands me to honor the pledge to Theoric. Suppose this journey is all in vain."

Loki smiled, his eyes scanning the road ahead. The curling foothills of the Southern Mountains had begun to rise gently around them, like the burial mounds of sylvan giants.

"One conundrum at a time, please," he said, voice dry. He gestured toward the looming peaks. "Suppose we enter the mountains and find an entire brigade of rock trolls lying in wait."

"I must beg to inform you, my lord, that in my years of service to the queen, I have made this journey to my father's lands and back four times, and I have seen not a single troll." She paused thoughtfully. "Although I did see a wolf, once."

"Very comforting. And I will beg to inform you, Lady, that, in those very mountains, there have been many occasions where Thor and I battled. . ." He stopped, his voice dying away, and then looked off to the side. "Well. Those days are long past."

In the sudden silence, Bruni's hooves sounded loud against the road's paving.

Quietly, Sigunn asked, "And will they never come again?"

Three, four more strides. Bruni dipped his head against the sudden tension in the hand that held the reins.

"I think not," Loki said finally.

Sigunn lifted her hand, hesitantly, and then laid it on his arm. After an instant of stillness, he reached up across his chest and brushed his fingertips along hers before letting his hand fall again.

He looked ahead, at the mountains' dark slopes; the chains lay heavy on his shoulders.

* * *

Thor strode into the stable, shouting for the stableman, curbing with difficulty the vast, angry impatience that tugged viciously at his belly.

The Southern Mountains! Why in the name of all the Realms was Loki riding into the Southern Mountains!

He paused then, and frowned. He stood before the stall of the stallion Hrafn, and a sleek black head emerged and a bright eye looked inquiringly at him.

Slowly, he turned toward Sif, who was bridling her horse, and called, "Did you not say that Loki had his horse already saddled, when you saw him?"

"Yes," she answered shortly. She did not look his way.

Thor reached out and stroked the black neck. Though he and Loki no longer rode together, he knew, nevertheless, that since his return to Asgard, Loki had chosen this stallion as his sole mount.

The stableman approached at a run, and said, panting for breath, "Shall I saddle Konungr, my lord?"

"No," Thor said slowly, staring into the black eyes before him. "I will take Hrafn."

The stableman blinked. "At once, my lord." he said, and hurried off to gather Thor's tack.

Thor followed him, swallowing the hurry that suddenly scrabbled once more at his throat. He leaned against the tack room's half-wall, watching the stableman, thoughts far away, when he felt something crackle under the heel of his boot. Glancing down, he saw, in the dim shadow of the wall, a broken, dirt-smeared book. He crouched, lifting it gently and turning it over, and then his hands stilled. A short, vicious dagger was impaled through its center. He looked up, carefully; no one was regarding him. He pulled the dagger out, shoving it into his boot, and then examined the book, his face growing grim and tight. He recognized it; he'd seen it just a short while before, when Loki had carried it out of the Lore Vault.

 _I have a choice before me_ , he'd said.

 _My actions have been entirely honorable_.

When the stableman led Hrafn to him, Thor, under the pretense of checking the saddle girth, slid the battered book into his saddlebag.

Then he mounted, and, with the others behind him, thundered out of the stable in a cloud of dust and urgency.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

**Storm's Eye**

**Part 8/20**

_In the foothills of the Southern Mountains, at sunset. . ._

"Shall we try it?"

Sigunn peered over Loki's shoulder at the village in the hollow below. It lay astride the South Road, the stone and timber buildings clustered together tightly, though it had a friendly, comfortable look rather than a frightened one.

She cast a look up at Loki's face. "Have you stopped here, during any of your previous sorties into the mountains?"

Loki's mouth twisted wryly. "Oh, yes. This is the only village for miles around, and, despite all of Thor's appetite for the hunt, he was always willing to indulge in a few of the creature comforts."

He pointed. From below, faintly, the jovial sounds of laughter and boastful jests blended with the mournful notes of an inexpertly played flute, all emanating from a large, low-roofed, cross-timbered edifice crouched at the nearest edge of the village. Its sprawling stableyard and the extensive vineyard stretching out behind marked it unmistakably as the town's tavern.

Loki tapped one finger against the saddle's pommel. "If anyone is pursuing us, we don't want to linger here. But we must have another horse."

"And Bruni needs rest, and fodder."

At the sound of his name, the stallion lifted his head, ears flickering backward. Even his great strength had been taxed with a long day bearing two riders; for the last several hours, his strides had come ever more slowly. Loki glanced back at Sigunn with a nod, registering the faint line between her brows and the drawn weariness on her face. He frowned then. The bandage on her brow was stained with blood that had soaked through.

_You need rest, also._

"Let's go down. We'll have to be cautious, though. I'm certain at least some of the people here would remember me, and I'd be especially noticeable if I walk into the tavern with such a. . ." He flicked his fingers back toward her.

Behind him, Sigunn said dryly, ". . .harbinger of doom?"

He laughed. "I was going to say "beautiful lady'."

"Oh? Well, do continue."

"Thank you, I will. Perhaps I can fashion us a sort of . . .disguise."

"A veil of ugliness?"

"Something like that."

The road wound gently down from the ridge. Loki nudged the stallion forward, and then, he said, his voice shading more somber, "Did the Idisi truly see themselves as harbingers of doom? Rather than bringers of victory?"

"I think so. Mostly, really, in the end, they saw themselves as. . .tools."

They were silent for a few moments. Then Loki said, "I read the story of your people in a child's book. I think, perhaps, some of the more unsavory details were. . .softened."

"No doubt. Do you wish to hear?"

"I do. Truly."

Sigunn's voice took on the soft, rhythmic cadence of a bard spinning an oft-heard tale. "Why, then, you must imagine a warlord of the distant past, a monarch from anywhere in the Realms, assembled on a battlefield facing his ancient foe. He desires a total victory, and so, he has sent his men to raid an Idisi village, despite its being carefully hidden. They have captured the Victory-Bringer, and they've brought her, bound and struggling, to the front line of the battle. Do you see it, in your mind's eye?"

"I see it." Loki's voice was grim.

"But she refuses to wield the fire for them. She defies them. Now suppose, if you can, that they have also captured her mother, or her children, or her beloved husband. And they say to her, Woman, you will release the fire, or we will slit your children's throats before your eyes. Do you see it still?" Her tone had thickened.

"Yes."

"But sometimes she will still refuse. And so she is killed, brutally slaughtered, and thousands more like her, throughout the years. Because the warlords do not see her as a woman, or as a person, but only as a . . ."

"A weapon to be used."

"Yes. And the Idisi dwindle, and as a people they fall, and fall, and fall . . ."

He looked back at her. Her eyes, hot and wet, gazed at him, and through him, into the darkened past.

Softly he said, "So they chose to disappear."

She nodded.

He said, "In the child's tale, ten of the Idisi mothers gathered around a roaring bonfire, on a midwinter's eve, and transformed themselves and all that were left of the people into columns of smoke, who rose up with the sparks of the fire, into the heavens."

Impatiently, Sigunn dashed away the tears clinging to the corners of her eyes, and said, "That's a lovely story. I wish it had happened that way."

"What did happen?"

"There were ten Houses of Asgard, ten House fathers who saw the destruction of the Idisi as an evil thing, and who agreed to bring the few who remained into their Houses, and hide them there, as if they were born Asgardian."

Loki frowned. "Was the House of Halfdan one of those?"

"No. The Halfdanir have never had the fire."

"But they know you have it."

Sigunn looked away. Loki felt her body stiffen, and he knew there was a story there, no doubt an unpleasant one. He waited, but finally Sigunn said merely, "Yes. They know."

After a quiet pause, she continued, "One of the ten Houses was the House of Iwaldi."

"Your father's house."

"Yes."

Loki shook his head, thinking through the history of Asgard that he knew, that he had studied.

_How can it be that an entire race has lived and died among us, and we remember nothing of it?_

Slowly he said, "But your people vanished nonetheless?" He paused, arrested, and turned his head toward her. "Or did they?"

"This is all the history of many generations past, and so, as these things happen, there was intermarriage with the Asgardians, and a blending of the two bloods, and the Idisi as a separate people disappeared; they faded into the Houses that sheltered them, and the fire was snuffed out."

"Except in the House of Iwaldi."

Sigunn stirred uneasily behind him. "Here I cannot answer your questions, for I don't know myself why Iwaldi was different. I think my grandmother knew, but she refused to speak of it, and she died before I was old enough to realize how important it might be." Her voice darkened. "This is one of the things I will surely ask my father, when we reach him."

"One of the many things."

"Indeed. But even in our House, the fire grew sporadic, and dim. For four generations before me, my mother and grandmothers did not bear the fire, not even a tiny spark."

"And you have a spark?"

A stillness stretched out, for so long that Loki looked back at her, to find her staring down at the clenched fist in her lap. When she felt his gaze, she raised her head and her eyes were bleak.

"I have more than a spark. Truly, Loki, I am. . .very dangerous."

They had arrived at the bottom of the hill, and the tavern's cheerful din reached out to greet them, in stark contrast to the quiet sorrow in Sigunn's voice. Loki halted Bruni in the darkest shadows along the road's edge. He twisted in the saddle, to look into her eyes, and said, "So am I."

She nodded, slowly, her brows lifting. "I know."

"Then you should know as well that, just as you don't fear the frost giant, I am not afraid of the Victory-Bringer."

She smiled then. "Even if you should be."

He smiled in return. "Risky ventures, yes?"

He watched the sorrow abate from her face, and then turned back and studied the tavern narrowly, observing the activity in and out its entrance: a pretty maiden and a young farmer, wandering in from opposite directions to meet in front of the door with poorly-feigned surprise; a child slipping out with a bowl of cream for a bevy of waiting cats, all their tails waving eagerly; a group of three village elders, leaning heavily upon each other's shoulders, stumbling away singing a very old and very bawdy ballad at the tops of their voices. Behind him, he felt rather than heard Sigunn breathe out a quiet chuckle.

_It will do. It will have to do._

His gaze swept the houses beyond the tavern, until his eye lighted on a small cottage, further back from the road, with a garden overflowing with flowering vines and espaliered fruit trees, and a tiny barn painted blue.

_And that will do as well._

When the road was deserted, for a moment, he guided the stallion behind the tavern and the other houses, and fetched up beside the blue barn. Bruni shook his head eagerly, the bridle jingling with his anticipation of an end to the day's wearisome ride.

The cottage's door swung open, and a graying head emerged, and then the remainder of a plump old woman wrapped tightly in a bright yellow apron, her eyes widening at the sight of the enormous red horse. With an easy movement, Loki had dismounted, and, as the stallion's body temporarily shielded him from the cottager's eye, he slanted a glance up at Sigunn, and gave her an enigmatic smile. Sigunn swallowed a gasp, then, for as Loki reappeared on the other side of the horse, he had. . .changed.

His stature was the same, and nothing could disguise his graceful bearing and the subtle aura of power that drifted about him, but gone were the armor and the sleek black hair. Instead, he was garbed in a soft green tunic and buff-colored breeches, and his head gleamed a reddish-gold in the light of the setting sun, waving locks brushing his collar. The strong line of his jaw was softened and hidden by a neatly-trimmed beard.

"Good day," he said, and his voice was altered, too: rougher and higher-pitched. He smiled at the cottager, and gesturing back toward Sigunn and Bruni, he added, "The lady and I have traveled far this day, and we seek lodging tonight at the tavern yonder."

The cottager nodded, cautiously, eyes bemused.

"But our horse is uneasy in the presence of other stallions. Would you be so kind as to allow him to shelter here, in your barn? We would pay. . ." And suddenly there appeared a gleam of gold in his hand.

At the sight of it, and the mention of payment, all caution left the cottager's wrinkled face. Her eyes glittered as she said, "Of course you may, sir. The barn's empty now, but for our two goats, and they'll be happy for the company of such a noble beast, I'm sure. My grandson'll see to your horse, if you like."

Loki's smile broadened, and he bowed graciously. "We do like, and we thank you. We'll return for him in the morning."

"And you'll pay me then?" The old woman's eyes brightened.

"Aye," Loki said.

"Well, good e'en to you, then, sir, and to your lady." She glanced up at Sigunn, who dipped her head in greeting, and then shouted into the house, "Bjarni! Come here, lad!"

A tow-headed boy appeared, hesitating on the doorstep and eyes popping as he took in first Loki, and then the tall horse, and then Sigunn, as she dismounted with an ungainly thump, her legs and back stiff from riding so long without benefit of saddle.

"Attend to the gentlefolk's horse, lad," the old woman commanded.

Sigunn lifted Bruni's reins over his head, and handed them to the boy with a smile. He took one short glance at her, and then, blushing to the roots of his hair, gave her the briefest of bows, took the reins, and led Bruni off into the barn.

Loki waited until the old woman withdrew back into her cottage, and then crossed the distance to Sigunn in two strides, holding out his hand. She took it, and quickly, they slipped around the other side of the barn, and into the graying twilight.

When they had distanced themselves, far enough for voices not to be heard, Sigunn stopped, pulled her hand from Loki's grasp and waved it up and down expressively in front of his body, her brows raised nearly to her hairline.

Loki laughed; though his face was changed, his eyes glinted at her, exactly the same: Loki eyes, filled with mischief. "It's a glamour. A . . .simple magic. Shallow. It encourages everyone who looks at me to see what I'd like them to see rather than what is really there. Here, touch me." He held out his arm, and she reached over and ran her hand along it. It looked as if it were clad in soft green wool, but under her fingers she felt the rigid leather and metal of his armor.

She looked up into his face, his stranger's face. "I rather like the beard. Very . . . dashing."

He inclined his head. "I'm glad you approve." His eyes were alight now, with suppressed mirth, and his face wore an expression of such beatific innocence that she said, eyes narrowing, "You've done it to me, as well, haven't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"And?"

"You look lovely. I'm sure you'd like it very much."

"I'm sure I would." She looked down at herself, and then up again, cocking a questioning brow.

"The glamour only works on others, not on the self."

"Ah. So what do I look like? To others?"

Loki took a step back, regarding her with head tilted to one side and a tiny smile curling the edge of his mouth. He nodded thoughtfully. "A miniature Valkyrie."

Silence. He watched as any number of possible responses flickered through her eyes, and then his smile widened as she opted for a rather pained, "Really?"

He placed his hand on his chest, fingers spread wide, bowing slightly. "Trust me, my lady."

"Oh, of course. Absolutely. Without question." But her smile remained highly dubious.

Then it faded and she asked slowly, "Is this paining you? The magic?"

"No, not really. This is the lightest magic, a glamour over two people; I can hold it with hardly a thought, and the chains. . .well, they allow me a little leeway, which, I admit, seems to be getting smaller." He held up a hand, finger and thumb spread to show a little space. "But if I stretch beyond a certain line, then . . ." He brought the hand down in a sharp, stabbing movement. "I'm reminded of the limits imposed upon me."

Sigunn's eyes flashed. "There should not be any limits imposed on you."

Loki smiled. "I couldn't agree more. When we return to the city, please feel free to express that opinion to the Allfather."

She nodded toward the blue barn. "And the separate accommodations for Bruni?"

"If anyone is following after us, the first place they will search is the main stables."

She smiled. "You're very skilled at this sort of thing."

"Why, thank you. I endeavor to please. Because of course the way into a lady's heart is through the accomplishment of roguish exploits."

She grinned and dropped him a curtsey. "Then my heart is yours."

He looked down at her bent head.

_Is it?_

Then, when she looked up at him again, he said, "But, speaking of pain. . . Come."

Quickly they walked to the rear of the tavern, into a square of golden light spilling out of an open window. He gestured toward the bandage on her brow. "May I?"

When she nodded, he reached out, his fingertips warm against her skin as he lifted the edge of the bandage. He frowned and took a step nearer, bringing the other hand up, the palm smoothing back her hair, as he began to gently pry the fabric away from the dried blood around the wound. Sigunn gazed at the open collar of his tunic, at the lean line of his neck and the hollow of his throat, just a few inches away, and her mouth was suddenly dry.

His neck muscles tightened as he uttered a soft oath.

"What is it?"

"It's bleeding again, a little." He stepped back, refolding the bandage to find a clean surface and then pressed it to her brow. His eyes were troubled.

"It should be healing by now."

"Ah," Sigunn smiled up at him. "You mustn't judge my people by the standards of yours, my lord."

Loki quirked a brow at her. "Which of my people?  _Jotun_  or Aesir?"

"Both, I imagine. The Idisi were more fragile. They were no warriors."

Loki looked down into her eyes. "The fire. . .it doesn't protect you?"

"No. It isn't a comfort." Her lips thinned. "It is only a force of destruction."

Loki lifted the bandage away, his eyes intent as he studied the wound, and then dropping to meet hers again as he said, "But power is a neutral thing; it can be used for good or ill, according to the wielder." He spread his hands, and his voice lowered. "Surely, Sigunn, in your keeping, the fire is not a force of evil."

"It is not a force at all." She stepped back, the lines of her body tensing. "Because I will not wield it." She shook her head fiercely. "I refuse to wield it!"

The sudden motion provoked a new beading of blood along the line of the wound. Loki reached out once more, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder as he pressed the bandage to it again.

After a moment, he let out a breath of laughter. She looked up to find his eyes gleaming down at her.

"It is the deepest mystery to me," he murmured, "how you have ever acquired a reputation for gentleness. Truly, Lady, I do not understand it."

He lifted his hand from her shoulder, and offered her his arm. "Ready?"

"I've never been in the tavern," Sigunn remarked.

He glanced down at her. "Not proper for a lady traveling alone?"

"Oh, no. And of course I am always all that is proper. I've only become a rogue since knowing you, my lord."

"My apologies. I have that effect on people. I cannot think why."

She gave him a sidelong smile. "Nor I." She tilted her chin forward. "What is it like?"

"It's clean. . .enough. And the mead has a mighty kick." He swept a hand toward the vineyard that spread off into the gray distance. "The wine is good. . ."

". . .enough?"

He laughed, and, since they'd reached the door, swung it open. "You must judge for yourself."

The tavern was indeed clean enough, crowded with long planked tables and benches, and a tall ash-wood counter along the entire length of the east wall. Small lamps were scattered here and there, a humble constellation in the shadowy room. Despite the dim light, the tavern hummed with convivial talk, and nearly all the benches were filled. A number of barmaids flitted about between the tables, expertly balancing fistfuls of tankards or trays piled with bread and cheese. The flutist was a young girl, perched cross-legged on the end of the counter, behind which a stout, heavily bearded man surveyed the room with the air of an absolute sovereign regarding the denizens of his kingdom. All of them- -maids, musician and barkeep- -were possessed of the same pale, flaxen hair and strongly-marked cheekbones, and it was obvious that this was an establishment owned and operated by one large family.

All eyes turned to the door as Loki and Sigunn entered, Loki having to bend his head to clear the low lintel. The little flutist missed several notes as she gave them a careful examination, and then, with an impudent smile, she pointed toward the far end of the room with the tip of her flute, where two empty places waited, at the end of one table.

Loki nodded his thanks, his eyes sweeping the room as they threaded their way through the crowd. The only way out was the door they'd just entered. Behind the counter, another door led off, into the kitchen, no doubt, and a narrow spiral stair climbed out of one corner, to some sort of loft up above. There were four windows, all barred and bolted, along the west wall. And that was all.

He moved his shoulders, shrugging away an uncomfortable, trapped feeling.

When they'd seated themselves, one of the flaxen-haired maids appeared, planting one hip on the edge of the table, giving Loki a thorough up-and-down with her eyes, and sparing Sigunn a friendly wink. "Travelers, are you?" she asked. "Thirsty, I'll wager."

She plucked two winecups from her tray and presented them with a flourish.

"Unless you'd rather have mead?" she asked, shooting a doubtful look at Sigunn from under her lashes.

Sigunn laughed. "Thank you, no." She glanced at Loki. "The wine is enough."

"For me as well. And some simple fare to eat. Bread, cheese, fruit, if you have it?" He picked up the wine cup and raised it to his lips.

"Of course, sir." The maid stood to leave, but was stopped by Sigunn's voice.

"Will you tell me something, miss? Don't you think my hair is very like her's, over there?" She heard Loki choke down a laugh along with his wine as she pointed to one of the other maids, whose tresses were bound into two long, pale braids that swung over her shoulders as she bent over a table and plunked down six tankards, to lusty cheers from the customers seated there.

The maid looked at Sigunn silently for a moment, her face blank. "Well, no, excuse me, m'lady, but. . .your hair is very black."

Another sputter of muffled laughter from Loki.

Sigunn smiled gently. "Ah, of course it is. Forgive me."

"Certainly, m'lady." The maid whirled away, but not before giving Sigunn one more puzzled glance over her shoulder.

Sigunn turned to Loki, who had returned his cup to the table and was regarding her with an expression of extreme solemnity. She smiled at him. "So it appears that I am the only Valkyrie in all the Nine Realms, miniature or no, with hair like a raven's wing."

"Hmmm, yes, so it appears. I seem to have made an error. Perhaps my knowledge of the Valkyrie is faulty. Would you like me to try again?"

"Oh, no. I trust you." Her eyes sparkled at him. "Absolutely."

"And why shouldn't you?"

She turned away then, catching her lower lip with her teeth to stifle her own laughter. Loki found himself contemplating that lip. He tightened his grip on the wine cup, to quell a sudden desire to lean forward and kiss it, to give its soft, sweet curve his full, lingering attention.

_Neither the place nor the time._

He lifted the cup again and took a large swallow.

The maid returned, depositing two trenchers and a shallow oval bowl carved out of some dark wood and filled to its brim with grapes and a wedge of crumbly white cheese.

Sigunn was looking past him, a wistfulness replacing the laughter in her eyes, watching as three of the maids had gathered in a temporary, sisterly huddle behind the counter, their flaxen heads bent close together as one of them shared some tale and the others laughed with her.

"Do you have sisters, Sigunn?" he asked.

She came back to herself with a snap, and turned to him with a quick smile. "Yes. Four. I am the eldest."

His voice lowered. "And do they also bear the fire?"

"No." She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. "That is the burden of the firstborn. It has always been."

Loki looked down, examining the wine at the bottom of his cup. "The firstborn are ever thus. 'Burdened with glorious purpose'." His voice was bitter.

"Glorious? Are you thinking of Prince Thor?"

Loki's jaw tightened. "I suppose I am."

Her voice was so soft that he had to turn back and look into her face. "And what purpose is that? The obvious one as future ruler of the Realms?"

Loki said slowly, "I believe he also thinks it his purpose to bear responsibility for his younger brother." He shook the bitterness away, and smiled at her. "Are you the same? Do you keep a careful watch over your sisters?"

The question was meant to be lighthearted, but he watched it hit her like a blow. She looked away, her jaw flexing, and pain glittered suddenly in her eyes.

"Sigunn?"

She turned back, straightening her shoulders and summoning a smile. "No. No, I. . .I don't know them very well."

He frowned, leaning forward, but catching the question before it could leave his lips and cause her further pain.

_How is it possible that you do not know your own sisters?_

He had a sudden vision, blurry and indistinct, of a family, a group of sisters huddled in laughing camaraderie, like the maids in this tavern, and there, off to the side, one alone, her fiery hair curtaining her face.

And then, just then, the tavern door swung open, letting in a gust of cool night air, provoking a dancing flicker from the tiny lamps on the tables. In through the door walked Lady Sif, a red cloak drawn tightly around her, and behind her was Theoric Gyrdson.

Loki saw Sigunn's face tighten. He whispered quickly, his lips hardly moving, "Remember the glamour. They cannot see through it. We are strangers to them. Don't react."

He slid his arm around her, drawing her close, as if they were any other couple enjoying the tavern's boisterous warmth. He bent his head toward her, and studied Sif from behind Sigunn's profile, as the warrior maiden's eyes scanned the room. To Sigunn he murmured, with a smile that would suggest gentle jesting to any onlooker, "Earlier, when you struck your head in the stable, she called you ' _asta_ '."

 _Asta_. Beloved.

_And in the stable Sif's eyes were wild and red, like Theoric's in the Court of Archers._

"Yes, I heard. It's so strange. I hardly know her. Why would she. . .? And why is she here, with Theoric?" Her voice caught and rose on the guard's name, and, under the table, Loki laid his hand over hers, signaling caution. Sif and Theoric were leaning against the counter, now, waiting for the barkeep's attention. Both of their eyes carefully searching the room.

The barkeep turned to them and Sif was leaning forward, asking a question. And then, the little girl on the counter, apparently overhearing, tugged on Sif's cloak, and pointed over in the corner, directly at Loki and Sigunn.

"Damn," Loki muttered. "They're coming. Remember, they don't know us. We don't know them." Sigunn nodded, her eyes locked on Loki's face. Her hand under his was icily cold. He leaned forward, his brow against hers, as if they were two lovers far gone in their own world.

A sound of a throat clearing, barely audible over the tavern's clamor. Theoric's voice saying gruffly, "Your pardon?"

Loki looked up, an expression of surprised annoyance on his face. A lover interrupted in his wooing. "Yes?"

Sif bowed slightly. "Forgive the trespass, sir, and you, lady. The barkeep's daughter told us that you have but lately arrived, and, as you are travelers on the road, we wondered if we could speak with you?"

Loki shrugged, a bored motion. "If you like." He was slouched insouciantly on the bench, disguising his height and the lines of his body. He indicated the seat across from them with a casual wave of the hand, and Sif flung back her cloak and sat, nodding her head in greeting to Sigunn, who nodded back, a trifle stiffly, and then returned her gaze to the trencher before her. She lifted one hand and began to rearrange the grapes. Below the table, Loki gave her hand a squeeze.

 _Steady_.  _Don't react_.

"Thank you." Sif leaned forward on her elbows, speaking in a low, urgent voice. "This gentleman and I are seeking two travelers. Perhaps you've seen others on the road this day?"

"We have, some. Who do you seek?"

Theoric leaned forward, planting his hands flat on the table. "A man and a woman, like yourselves. He's tall, with black hair, wearing black armor, and she's a small woman in riding clothes, with flame-colored hair and a white cloak. They're on a great red horse, a stallion."

Loki picked up a grape, and tossed it into his mouth, speaking through it. "Why are you looking for them? Have they stolen something from you?"

Theoric straightened, a muscle moving angrily in his cheek. "That's none of your concern."

Sif eyed him, her face tightening. "Have you seen them? It is important. It's a matter of the lady's safety."

Loki felt Sigunn's hand curl into a fist. He ran his thumb along it ( _Steady._   _Stay calm_.), while he leaned back, and studied Sif from under hooded eyelids as he said, "I don't recall any such." He looked over at Sigunn, arching a brow. "You, my love?"

Sigunn shook her head, raising her eyes to speak her own denial. But her gaze was caught by Sif, who leaned forward, eyes narrowing, sharpening, and then suddenly glowing with a red, smoky haze. She exhaled with a rattling shudder, and her hand snapped forward like a striking serpent, grasping Sigunn's wrist. Sigunn gasped in horror, starting backward, jerking her hand away, and then she stumbled to her feet, her face pale with fear.

The tavern was momentarily frozen, every eye drawn to Sigunn's sudden movement. And in that moment, Loki was on his feet. As Theoric's face changed from a startled gape to a fierce anger, Loki rammed his forearm with its disguised metal vambrace into the guard's throat. Theoric fell back, choking, and Loki whirled toward Sif. But she already had a dagger out, and she was thrusting forward, into his ribs. He felt the leather give, felt the blade slide along his skin even as he twisted away. She surged after him and stumbled, her feet caught under the table as she tried to leap over the bench.

The tavern exploded into a maelstrom of shouting, moving bodies. Loki pulled Sigunn behind him, reached down and seized Sigunn's half-full winecup and flung the wine into Sif's eyes. She ducked, bringing both hands to her face, and Loki pushed Sigunn into the heaving crowd.

Her diminutive height hid her at once, and he bent as they twisted their way through the press of bodies. Under cover of a knot of exclaiming, shouting farmers, he led Sigunn behind the ashwood counter, and through the kitchen door, past several astonished maids. There was a brief impression of heat and light and furiously boiling pots and pans, and then Loki had flung open a small rear door, and they were out in the tavern's sideyard.

"They'll know we came this way," Sigunn gasped.

"Yes." Loki spoke swiftly, urgently. "I'm going to create something, now, an illusion, but it's going to cross that line."

She turned her face toward him, horrified. "No."

He shook his head. "No choice."

He extended his arm, bracing his body against the pain, fingers outspread to cast the illusion as widely as possible. He pressed his other hand to his ribs; the leather was slick with blood. Inside the tavern, he heard Sif's voice, shouting, "Check the kitchen!" Beside him, Sigunn hissed, "Why are they doing this? They have no cause to attack us!" She reached down into her boot, and retrieved the horsehead dagger.

He slanted a glance at her, and a sudden wolfish grin. "Keep your weapon up, Lady. I'm not at all certain that this is going to work, and I might need you to defend me."

Then he closed his eyes, gathering the power into one great burst, and releasing it with a wave of his hand. The pain fell like a hammer-blow, driving him to his knees, all the breath leaving his lungs in a pained rasp. Dimly he felt Sigunn's hands, felt her draping his arm over her shoulders, her own arms about his torso, heard her gasp with effort as she straightened.

The level of noise in the tavern had risen tenfold, and every voice now had a hysterical, panicked edge. As she helped Loki climb to his feet, Sigunn whispered, "What did you do?"

The face he turned toward her was pale and creased with pain, but in the moonlight his eyes were glimmering with amusement.

"I extended the glamour, and deepened it," he said. "Every person in the village now wears either your face or mine, and our bodies, too." He laughed, and then coughed as a fist of pain struck him. "Including Sif and Theoric."

Sigunn stared at him, mouth dropping in astonishment and horror. "That's a. . .a lot of magic."

"Oh, yes. Definitely crossed the line." He winced, took several more steps, and then stopped again, leaning heavily on her shoulder. The light faded from his eyes. "I cannot hold it, Sigunn. Not for more for a few minutes."

She nodded, hitching her arms further up his body. "Let's go. I'll help you."

Though it was a short journey, behind several houses and around the cottager's garden, Sigunn felt every inch of it as hideous. Loki's steps dragged, his breathing ragged and uneven. His weight against her caused her own feet to stagger again and again, and she knew that every lurch and stumble sent a wave of agony rippling through his body. When they had finally reached the corner of the blue barn, he stopped and slid his arm off her shoulders to lean against the wall. Behind them, people had begun to spill out of the tavern, running and shouting in every direction. Loki chuckled faintly.

"This day will be long remembered in the village lore."

Sigunn felt tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. "Please, we're here. Let the glamour go."

He nodded, pushing himself away from the wall. He raised one arm, with a palpable effort, and twisted his hand toward the starlit sky above, opening the fingers outward. At once, with a faint golden shimmer, the green tunic and red-gold hair were gone, and he stood, bent with pain, in his black armor. Cries of relieved astonishment rose from every corner of the village as the glamour evaporated, but Sigunn hardly heard them. She moved quickly, to slide her arms around him again, when she saw his body stiffen, and his head fall forward for a moment as he murmured, "Oh, by Ymir's blood, no."

"What is it?"

She saw then that he was looking beyond her shoulder. She spun; a tall, dark form was emerging from the stable.

Without a thought, she drew the horsehead dagger from her belt and stepped in front of Loki. The moonlight winked on the blade; the figure ahead stopped and raised its hands. "Easy, now." a deep voice said.

Loki's voice, still limned with pain, murmured in her ear, "I couldn't ask for a more valiant defender, but that won't be necessary. I hope."

Then his voice sharpened, forming a caustic bitter edge as he said, more loudly, "How it must weary you, to be constantly sent forth in quest to fetch your wayward brother home."

The figure took another step forward, and the moonlight gleamed on burnished armor and pale, golden hair.

It was Thor.

* * *

In the tavern, as the golden glow dissipated and the faces and bodies returned to their former state, Theoric found Lady Sif, standing rigidly in the kitchen doorway, her fist pressed against the frame.

"Let's be after them!" he exclaimed.

"No."

The voice was deeper, and, when she turned, her eyes were wholly red. He flinched away, before catching himself and forcing his eyes to look into her face.

"No," she said again, and he saw that she was trembling with fury. "I tire of this, of chasing after the black prince and playing his clever games. I tire of seeing his hands touching her." Her eyes flared. "Neither you nor your father warned me of his power."

"He's nothing. A traitor. . ."

She laughed, a brittle sound that hung uneasily in the air between them. "Your saying thus only proves your foolishness. But, he will indeed be nothing, since he persists in going into the mountains. I have allies there."

Theoric's face was perplexed for a moment, and then he blanched, his mouth twisting. "Surely you would not seek the assistance of those vile creatures. I would never do so!"

"How fortunate that I am not burdened with such delicate scruples. Those vile creatures serve me gladly, and they will do what I require."

She smiled, baring her teeth.

"I will send a message tonight."

She strode forward, out into the kitchen. As he moved to follow her, Theoric saw, imprinted on the doorframe, a black, sooty scorch mark, in the shape of a fist.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor faces down uncertainty, and the various ways to make a fire in the wilderness.

**_Storm's Eye_ **

**_Part 9/20_ **

_In the village, where it is now full night. . ._

Thor let fall his hands, peering at the indistinct forms of his brother and the lady as they faced him in the deepening dark; he squared his shoulders instinctively against the icy antagonism in Loki's voice. He watched the moonlight slide along the blade as the lady slipped the dagger back into her belt, as he gave her a curious look from under lowered brows, and murmured, "Lady Sigunn?"

"Prince Thor," she replied, inclining her head. Beside her, Loki straightened. The ragged edge had left his breathing.

"What are you doing here?" Loki snapped.

Thor tilted his head toward the wall behind them. "You never use the large stables. It was only a matter of glancing into a few of the neighboring barns before I found the lady's stallion."

"Is it possible that I am that predictable?" Loki's tone was sour.

Thor's teeth flashed in the moonlight. "Only to me."

Even in the darkness he could see Loki shake his head. "Be that as it may, Thor, what I'm asking is why are you _here_ , in this village?" His voice grew colder with each word, until he was biting them off with bitter emphasis. "Why are you following after us, especially in the company of the guard Theoric?"

Thor lifted one hand, palm up. "Surely it's obvious. And how did you know the guard is with me?"

"On the contrary it's not in the least obvious, and the lady and I encountered Theoric in the tavern. And Sif."

"Would that explain the shouting and panic and wild running-about that I just heard?"

"It might."

Thor's belly clenched into a sudden knot, and he leaned forward, his voice urgent. "By the Tree, Loki, you didn't strike them down, did you?"

"They struck first." Loki stepped out of the barn's shadow. The moonlight glistened on the blood streaking his surcoat.

Thor's eyes widened, and then, as Sigunn moved into the light as well, he barked out a sharp oath. "You're wounded! Or she is. Someone is! You're both covered in blood!"

Sigunn stared down at herself in horror. The left side and the sleeves of her leather jerkin were stained with large patches of dark blood. Loki's blood. Throat choked with apprehension, she turned to him.

"Her dagger! It pierced your armor?"

Thor frowned fiercely. "Whose dagger?"

Loki ignored him. "Yes, but it was a glancing blow. It's minor, I'm certain."

"It doesn't look it!"

Thor's face was reddening; his voice rose. " _Whose_  dagger? Sif's? Sif struck you?"

Loki cast a glance at the cottage, and the lamplit glow falling out of all its windows. He put an impatient finger to his lips, and then gestured toward the rear of the barn with his chin. When they had rounded the corner, out of sight, he hissed. "Yes, Thor, your dear friend Sif has twice this day sought to do me significant bodily harm at the point of a dagger."

In the bright moonlight Thor could clearly see the marks of recent pain on Loki's face, in the taut line of his jaw and the shadows under his eyes.

"Why would she do that? Sif would not attack you without cause."

The lady stirred, and when Thor shifted his gaze to her, she said, "Prince Loki speaks the truth, my lord. She struck without warning, both times."

Thor felt the worried frustration clamping itself around his heart like a shackle.

"That's not like her. She wouldn't do that," he repeated softly.

"I don't think she's feeling quite herself today," Loki said, voice dry.

Thor's jaw flexed as he shook his head angrily. "Just like the guard."

Loki's face hardened. "Yes, exactly like him. Which brings me back to my question. Why are you here with him, Thor?"

"He's the lady's betrothed. He wanted to pursue her."

Sigunn's hands made a restless, aborted movement. Loki glanced down at her, and then said sharply, "His pursuit of the lady is not undertaken out of the ardent heart of a lover."

"He says it is."

"And your first response is to take his words at face value, regardless of his strange behavior!"

"No, of course not! I know there's something very wrong with that guard!"

"Good."

"But . . .curse it, Loki, he's told everyone at court that you've abducted this lady. The court is in an uproar."

"An uproar? Over my misdeeds? Surely you jest."

"What?" Sigunn's voice cracked with outrage. "Abducted? But. . .no! I was preparing to leave alone, and the prince came to the stable to speak with me." She glanced quickly at Loki. "There was some . . .trouble, and we had to retreat rather hurriedly. . ."

She stopped, and pressed her lips together, and then said indignantly, "Really, Prince Thor, it would be more accurate to say that I abducted him!"

Thor blinked. A low chuckle escaped Loki. "An interesting image, yes? I think we will leave you to muse upon it."

He slanted a brow at Sigunn.

She looked down again at the blood on his armor, and her face tightened. "I'll get Bruni," she said, and slipped around the barn's corner, into the shadow along the wall.

Thor watched her go, and then he rounded on Loki, a cresting wave of words piling up behind his tongue.

"You must return to the city! I won't allow you to go riding off into the mountains!"

"Allow? It is not your place, O prince, to  _allow_  me anything. I will do what I will, and what I will is not your concern."

"Of course it's my concern!"

Loki stepped forward suddenly, spitting his words directly into Thor's face, his eyes flaring and his voice low and cold. "It would be better for you to concern yourself with Lady Sif and Theoric Gyrdson."

Thor stared at him. "Loki, I know they're acting strangely, but to all appearances, you are, as well."

"Appearances are deceptive. Sif looks as usual, does she not? And yet she seems determined to end me."

Thor shook his head. "She's not as usual. Not at all." He looked away, folding one hand into a fist and pounding it into the palm of the other. "I need to know what's going on!"

"I told you earlier that I was leaving that problem to you. I meant it."

"That was before you made off with one of Mother's handmaidens!"

"I haven't made off with her!"

"Well, what are you doing then? You're here with her, aren't you? You're weakened; your magic is chained; you're wounded! You cannot go into those mountains. What if you meet with. . ."

Loki interrupted, his voice rising once more, "I can and I will."

Thor thumped a fist against the barn wall.

"Curse it all, Loki, who is this woman that you will risk destruction for her?"

Loki stepped back, tilted his head, his eyes expressionless. After a long pause, he said, "She serves the queen. You've known her as long as I."

"Loki, there's knowing a maiden's name and occupation, and then there's riding off with her into the wilderness!"

Loki smiled, then, a sharp, humorless grin. "Perhaps I find Lady Sigunn. . .inspiring."

"A man isn't inspired to court destruction by a woman he's known for two days!"

Loki lifted his brows mockingly. "No? Are you certain of that? Does the name Jane Foster strike any gold with you?"

Thor's eyes flashed, and he growled, circling around Loki like a wolf. "Don't, Loki. Don't speak of her to me. This is about you, not me."

"You're wrong. This, none of it, is about me at all."

Thor roared, "Then what. . ." and he caught himself, and with visible effort, lowered his voice and hissed, "Then what is it all about?"

Anger was sheeting off them, like ashes blown in the wind. Loki stared now into Thor's face, his eyes narrowing, his jaw flexing. Watching him, even under the spur of his fury, his incredulous rage that Loki would dare to mention Jane Foster, Thor felt a frustrated thought boiling to the surface.

_Loki, will you just trust me?_

Finally, he saw a flicker in Loki's eyes, a spark of a decision made however reluctantly; Loki's voice evened and lowered as he said, "Sigunn possesses something they want . . . well, it's probably best if you think of it as a sort of ancient treasure. "

"Who's 'they'?"

"The House of Halfdan-the guard Theoric and his father, and, I'm beginning to believe, others as well."

"What is this treasure?"

Loki shook his head. "I cannot tell you. It's her secret, not mine, and I won't betray it."

"And why are you riding into the mountains?"

"She goes to her father, to seek. . .answers."

"And you go with her because. . .?"

"Because I have chosen to do so. And I will not  _allow_  you to cast guilt upon the lady for the choice that I have made." Loki's voice had flattened, and Thor was aware that he would receive no further answer to that question.

"What about Sif?"

"I don't know. Her eyes were red, like the guard's, and her movements were unnatural, like his. She was brutally strong. And just now, in the tavern, she was able to penetrate a magic, the existence of which she shouldn't have even been aware."

As he spoke, Sigunn reappeared around the corner of the barn, with the red stallion, his head drooping wearily. Her hand was on his withers, and she was studying him, her mouth tight. At Loki's words, she looked up at him, startled. "I thought it was my fault. That I revealed us."

Loki shook his head. "No, Lady. The glamour should have protected you, but somehow she perceived you in spite of it. There was some deeper power at work."

Thor's face was suddenly anguished. "How was she able. . .what is happening with her?"

"That, Thor, is the puzzle for you to solve. This is a brand burning on either end, and I cannot by myself snuff out both sides of the fire. Stop following after me; let me fight the battle on this end, and you deal with the other!"

Thor looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. He muttered, "I don't see how I can let you go, alone."

"I'm not asking your permission. You can stand aside, or you can be run down."

Thor glared at him. Loki held his gaze for a moment, face cold, and then turned to Sigunn, who was watching them with troubled eyes.

"If you're ready, my lady?"

She hesitated. She studied Thor for a moment, concern warming her face, and then looked back to Loki, and then, slowly, she nodded, and allowed Loki to toss her up into Bruni's saddle.

Thor frowned. "Your horse is weary."

"Yes. But he's all we have at the moment. And he has heart." Loki touched the red neck, and the stallion's great black eye shifted to peer at him.

Thor bent his head, closing his eyes and blowing out a breath. He felt the choice before him, looming like a gathering storm. He could let Loki go, and turn all his attention to Sif and the guard and the gray shadow. Or he could insist on accompanying his brother and the lady on their rash journey through the mountains. His wariness of either path churned through his mind, making every thought waver back and forth until his belly lurched. And yet, despite his uncertainties, he could see one thing clearly: here, right now, standing in the tall grass in the moonlight behind this tiny barn, he had been given an opportunity, perhaps the last one, to show Loki the truth at the bottom of his heart.

_I can see honor in you. I don't look for only evil from you._

So he opened his eyes, and cast them upward, for a moment, at the dark sky above, and released his doubts into the night. Then he looked into Loki's face and said, "You need another horse. I have Hrafn."

Loki's eyes gleamed. "Where?"

* * *

Sif strode out into the tavern's sideyard. Anxious, exclaiming, wide-eyed villagers milled around her; but her eyes quickly found, clustered together near a stack of empty wine barrels, the four palace guards that had accompanied them this day, all of their eyes a bit wild around the edges. When they saw her, they hurried forward.

She frowned. Behind her, she heard Theoric, still muttering angrily about the black prince's tactics. She ignored him, and swept the yard once more with her eyes. Then she turned to the guards and asked abruptly, "Where is Prince Thor?"

* * *

As they slipped back into the grassy space between the cottage and its garden, Thor remarked grimly, "All of this goes back to that gray shadow. I'm certain of it."

Loki stopped, and looked sidelong at him, frowning. "You mentioned that before. What gray shadow?"

Just then, the door of the cottage opened, spilling a pool of warm yellow light over them, and the old woman emerged, bearing a gaily painted milk pail in each hand. She stopped short, her eyes widening.

Loki stepped forward quickly, his hand outstretched in a friendly gesture.

"All is well," he said. "We've been obliged to return for our horse a little earlier than we planned. . ."

The woman stared at Thor, who gave her what was meant to be a reassuring, close-lipped smile; her eyes flickered up to Sigunn, in Bruni's saddle, who nodded with brittle brightness, and back to Loki, who bowed politely. Her gaze took in the bandage on Sigunn's head, and Loki's blood-streaked armor, and Thor's travel-stained cloak, and her nostrils flared as she said, "But you're not the ones who left him here."

Thor's eyes slid to Loki, the smile melting into a perplexed frown. Sigunn's hands tightened on the reins. Loki's face was momentarily blank as his mind shifted rapidly through a number of plausible explanations that didn't involve magical glamour.

Before he could produce one, however, the woman backed away. Thor took an involuntary step forward, and her face blanched with fear. The milk pails dropped from her hands with a ringing clatter. She stumbled backward and then turned and fled, screeching, "Thieves! Help! Someone!"

Loki murmured a quiet oath, and then spun toward Sigunn.

"I'll get Hrafn. We need him. Can you ride out of the village, and make sure you're heard and seen? Capture everyone's attention?"

She was already gathering up the reins. "Of course."

Loki's mouth tightened. "If you're pursued?"

She smiled, suddenly, a merry, mischievous smile. "They're welcome to try."

In the distance they could hear the old woman, still wildly calling for help, and answering shouts from the villagers.

Loki turned to Thor. "How well do you remember this road?" He pointed beyond the village.

Thor understood at once what he was asking. He looked up at Sigunn, his voice clipped. "Two farthings ahead, more or less, there's a rock stile, on the righthand side of the road, and a path leading up from it into the peaks. You can find concealment there. It's narrow and steep; will the horse follow you?"

Sigunn nodded once. "Yes."

The shouts and clamor were growing, coming back in their direction. Loki said, "Go. I'll find you." Then he paused, and his voice dropped. "Be careful."

Her face had paled, but her mouth was set in a firm line, and with one sharp kick she sent the stallion forward past the cottage and out onto the road. There she paused, in the light from the village's windows and doors, holding him back so firmly that his neck bowed under the pressure of the reins. A shout of "there's the thief!", ringing footsteps, closer and closer, until she released the stallion. In two strides he had settled into a thundering gallop, his hooves crashing against the pavement, a drumbeat loud enough to wake the dead. Cries of alarm spread in his wake, and in an instant, every villager in every house along the road was peering out his door and gaping at the horse and his white-cloaked rider as they merged with the darkness beyond the village's farthest edge.

Loki had already circled halfway around behind the houses, back toward the tavern and its large stableyard, when Thor caught up with him. A glance at his face showed it set into hard, flat planes.

"That," he muttered, only just loud enough for Thor to hear, "was not one of my better schemes."

"No one can possible catch up with her. She was riding like a . . .well, like a Valkyrie."

Loki turned his head, his eyes glittering with what looked to Thor's surprised gaze like suppressed laughter. "When next you meet her, promise me that you will tell her that."

Thor frowned, puzzled. "If you like."

"Oh, I do."

Thor's heart felt lighter, suddenly. He hadn't beheld that look in Loki's eye in a very, very long time.

They slid along the edge of the tavern's sprawling stable. The yard was deserted, though the faint buzz of agitated voices seemed to indicate that all the former occupants of the public room were lingering out on the road, no doubt commenting freely on Sigunn's dramatic departure.

Hrafn stood tethered along one of the fences amongst a group of other horses, still saddled; his eyes were already fastened on Loki, ears flicked forward. Loki went to him, sliding a hand along his shoulder and reaching forward to unknot the reins. Thor watched him, overcome with the aching familiarity of this situation, of he and Loki allied together in some ridiculously farfetched quest, warily sidling through darkened stables or riding wildly through the countryside. No matter how dark or disturbing this particular quest had become, at least it had brought him here, to this moment of fragile camaraderie with his lost brother.

Loki flipped open the saddlebag to survey its contents, and paused, and then lifted out a battered book. He turned to Thor, brows raised. Thor came and took it from his hand.

"I found it this morning, in the stable." Thor said, and his voice grew more grim as he added, "It had a dagger through it."

Loki nodded. "Sif's."

Thor grimaced, thinking again of Sif's cold, stiff face. "How am I going to. . ."

He stopped, as Loki's eyes suddenly slid away.

At that moment, from around the far corner of the tavern, came Sif and Theoric, and four palace guards. They gathered into a group, listening to Sif, as she dealt out instructions with urgent gestures, pointing up the road to where Sigunn had disappeared. In one twin movement, Thor and Loki crouched, so that the horses' bodies shielded them from sight.

Thor saw Loki's face harden like midwinter frost. The tenuous accord between them shattered into splinters.

"You came after me  _with guards_?" Loki hissed.

"Well, yes, but. . ."

"What, to drag me back to the city in chains? Accomplishing that brave feat once wasn't enough for you? Did you bring a muzzle as well?"

"No! Loki, Father sent them because. . ."

He knew the words were a mistake the instant they left his lips. Loki's eyes flared with rage.

"Ah, of course. This tale of abduction and dishonor would lie easy on Odin's ear. Another opportunity to humble me before all of Asgard!"

"That's not why he sent them!"

Thor's voice had risen. Watching from behind Hrafn's sleek neck, Loki saw Sif's head turn toward the horses. Her eyes narrowed.

Thor glanced over Hrafn's back. The guards were looking this way now: he saw Sif make a commanding gesture with her head, and they all began walking across the yard toward them. He shoved the book into his belt, twisted back to Loki and whispered, "We can't let her know we've been talking. If you're going to make a believable escape, you'll have to seem to strike me down."

"Seem?"

Thor pressed his lips together, his eyes flashing a warning. "Hit me."

"With pleasure."

Thor was expecting a blast of magic, but Loki cocked back his arm like a battering ram and then struck a blow at Thor's jaw with all the weight of his body behind it. Thor staggered out from behind the horses and fell flat, and if a little of that fall was feigned, most of it was not.

Loki swung up onto Hrafn's back, spinning him and spurring him in one motion. The stallion surged forward in a great leap, the guards and Theoric scattering out of his path like frightened birds, and then he was out of the stableyard before any of them could react.

Thor climbed to his feet, rubbing his jaw and scowling after him. Sif had vaulted out of Hrafn's way, and now she sprinted to Thor as the guards picked themselves up.

"Shall we go after him?" Her voice was shrill. "He's pursuing Lady Sigunn! Didn't you see her?"

Thor shook his head, rubbing his chin again. "No. They'll not get far tonight. Their mounts are exhausted, and so are ours. We'll follow in the morning, when we're fresh." He looked around the yard. "In any case, it would seem that I am in need of another horse."

Sif's eyes, dark and expressionless, searched him. "How did he manage to get past you?"

Thor gazed down at her, face stony. "You know my brother, Sif. He is, and always has been, a formidable foe."

* * *

She had almost missed the stile, and the narrow path behind it had been a nightmarish ordeal, as she led Bruni upward along its rocky defile, conscious every moment of the great black empty space on her right. The stones dislodged by her feet or Bruni's hooves had bounced and rolled for a long time before landing with a faint splash in a stream, somewhere far below. The path gleamed gray in the moonlight, and the beetling cliff on the left was reassuringly solid, but, still, Sigunn's mouth was dry and her throat tight with fear by the time they reached the cliff's top, and the path ran along through deep forest once again.

She'd found a place, then, shortly beyond the cliff's edge, in a second ridge of rock that sloped steeply upward: a tiny, u-shaped alcove, like a cave with no ceiling. A spring bubbled up from the base of the rock wall, surrounded by the dark, damp leaves of wild mint and yellow violets.

It had been used before, this place: a ring of flat stones formed a firepit, with a stack of split logs waiting to be burnt. But the logs were gray and weathered, and the ashes in the pit cemented into a solid mass from the rainfall of many nights; no one had lodged here recently, and, in any case, Sigunn was too overcome with worry and weariness to venture any further.

She unsaddled Bruni, and left him untethered to forage for what he could. "Stay near, please,  _hestr_ ," she whispered, and he nosed her shoulder, as if he perceived her unease.

From her roll of gear she fetched her firestones, and a small pot. She arranged a neat pile of kindling in the firepit, and set it alight with a few strikes of the stones, trying to lose herself in the mindless tasks, but failing utterly. She saw Loki's face in the darkness around her and heard Loki's voice in the sighing wind that crept among the rocks.

_I'll find you._

She was bent over the little spring, filling her pot with water, when a movement caught the corner of her eye: Bruni lifting his head, ears pricked toward the shadows out under the trees. She drew breath sharply; she'd left her dagger with the rest of her gear. She stood abruptly, clutching the pot with fingers suddenly stiff, her eyes searching the black night beyond the circle of firelight. Then a tall dark horse appeared from between two trees, and she recognized at once the set of his rider's shoulders, and a gasp of relief emptied all the air from her lungs.

He dismounted with discernibly less than his usual grace, letting Hrafn's reins drop as he walked over to the fire, quirked a brow at her, and said, "I must thank you, Lady."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. Throughout the years of my life, and the endless pathways I have walked, it might surprise you to learn that this is the first time I have ever been abducted by a lady and carried off by her into the wild lands. I'm finding it rather invigorating."

Sigunn laughed. "When they sing your songs, in the ages to come, are you certain that is how they will chant this tale?"

Loki eyed her narrowly. "Perhaps not. I believe, in the oldest songs, it usually happens the other way around. More heroic."

Sigunn pointed to his midriff. "You've acquired a heroic wound. Surely that counts for something." Her smile waned as she added, "And we should be caring for it."

"I suppose so. Though it would be more heroic to let it fester. Are you offering to do the caring?"

"I am. But we'll need to remove . ." She gestured with both hands toward his armor, at its intricately-woven leather and interlaced pieces.

He raised one brow, inquiringly.

"I'll just. . .leave all that to you," she said.

He grinned at her, but as she turned back toward the fire, he looked down at himself and his mouth twisted wryly. On a normal occasion, the removal of his armor required nothing more than a wave of the hand and a breath of judiciously-applied power. But just now, as he took stock of his resources, he found that the thought of accessing even a breath of power provoked a sharp inward wince.

With a mental sigh, he reached for the fastenings on his vambraces.

Sigunn crouched beside the fire, balancing on the balls of her feet as she settled the little pot unto a flat rock, which she slid in among the flames. He frowned thoughtfully as he watched her, for though the fire burned merrily, its dancing flames carefully leaned away from her hands, as if the fire shied away from her touch.

He pulled off the vambraces, and the gauntlets underneath, and then shrugged out of the leather surcoat, grimacing as the movements pulled on the wound. The woven-leather breastplate of his armor laced up along his left side; as he reached for it, Sigunn looked up from the fire and then rose swiftly to her feet.

"I can do that, at least." She crossed to him. He studied her bent head, and her swift fingers as she unwove the lacing, and slid the breastplate off his chest.

The entire right side of the undertunic was stiff with dried blood. Sigunn sucked in her breath when she saw it, and shot a concerned glance up at his face through her lashes.

"Minor?" she asked, brows raised skeptically.

Loki shrugged.

"Perhaps you'd better sit," she said, and, when he'd lowered himself onto a large flat-topped rock near the fire, she knelt beside him and began to work the fabric away from his skin, where it had stuck fast to the edges of the wound. When it finally pulled free, he grasped the hem of the tunic and pulled it over his head.

In the firelight, Sigunn could clearly see where the dagger had sliced across his ribs, a gaping diagonal wound. It was caked with blood, a few drops still oozing along its surface. When she looked up at Loki the light refracted into a thousand points through the tears filming her eyes.

"This would not have happened if I had not. . ."

He shook his head. "Don't follow that path. Truly, it will heal quickly. Warrior race, remember?"

"Even the warrior's wounds should be tended to. Yes?"

"I'll try not to protest too loudly."

She stood and slipped out of her leather jerkin, and then turned and gathered up a handful of white cloth strips. When Loki raised a curious brow, she smiled. "From my cloak. If we continue to require copious bandaging, there will be naught left of it but a kerchief by the time we reach my father's lands."

She turned back to the fire, using one of the cloths to protect her hand as she snatched the little pot out of the flames. The water was boiling energetically, and she piled the strips into it, and brought the steaming pot back to where Loki sat, watching her, watching her easy movements, and the play of shadow and light across her face, and the curves of her body, as the firelight shone through the thin fabric of her blouse.

The night air was cold on his unclad back and chest, and he could not repress a shudder of pleasure as she pressed one of the warm cloths onto the wound. She hesitated, looking up at him with a crease between her brows. "This is hurting you."

"No." He leaned back, closing his eyes, surrendering himself to the whispering crackle of the flames and the muted smell of smoke and wood, to the warmth of the water, and the soft texture of the damp cloth, to the gentle pressure of Sigunn's hands as she cleaned the wound and his skin around it, to the almost completely forgotten sensation of placing himself in the care of another. In the deep corners of his heart, he felt a warmth that he recognized as contentment, and he was surprised at himself for recognizing it.

After many minutes, when the wound was clean and bandaged, she sat back on her heels, contemplating her handiwork, and he looked down at her from under his eyelids, and the contented warmth at his core sweetened and sharpened into another sort of heat altogether.

She smiled at him, and gathered up the pile of bloody cloths, walking over to the fire to toss them in. Then she crouched, studying it and using a short stick to adjust the lay of the logs until it flared up again, brighter and hotter.

Loki said, "I shouldn't be surprised that you have such an affinity for fires."

She straightened and grinned at him. "It's a useful skill, when one travels alone. I am rather proud to confess that I know three different ways to make a fire in the wilderness."

"Do you?" He stood, and came to stand beside her. After a moment, he looked down at her and murmured. "I know another way to make a fire."

"Well, since I don't wield magic, that door is closed to me."

"I'm not referring to magic."

She looked up at him, a warm silence twining itself around them as she stood poised between the blazing fire and the heat of his gaze.

"No?"

"It only works with two, traveling together."

Her eyes searched his face, the warmth on her skin caused by more than the fire. "I've always traveled alone."

"As have I. Even when I haven't."

He turned toward her, and reached up, and slowly traced the line of her collarbone with the tips of his fingers, and this time she did tremble under his touch, though he knew that, still, it was not from fear.

His eyes were dark and warm. Slowly he said, "One day, when you are no longer betrothed to another, we will build a fire together. If that would please you."

Her lips parted, as a deep breath slipped from her, her eyes on his. "It would. If that day would ever come."

Beside them, a log in the fire collapsed, sending up a swirling column of sparks.

Loki nodded. "It will."

* * *

In the loft over the village tavern's public room, Theoric sat in a hard-backed chair, his eyes fastened on the still form of Lady Sif. She lay on a bunk across the room, her body unmoving and barely visible in the gray light. Her arm drooped awkwardly, draped off the side of the bunk, and beneath the fingers a little pool of dark blood had gathered, dripping down her arm and off her fingertips from the gaping wound in her chest. He couldn't see that, but he knew it was there.

A round window stood open, looking out over the stableyard; a cold current of air flowed in through it. He was aware of the gradual lightening, the coming of the dawn. He had been sitting, watching her, unmoving, since shortly past midnight. He glanced over at the other bunk, along the third wall, where the crown prince slept soundly, one arm thrown back over his head.

Suddenly the window was opaque, filled with gray, moving shadow. The loft was warmer in a moment, a dry smoky warmth that filled Theoric's lungs with an almost unbearable urge to cough. He swallowed, and his hand crept to his throat. On his bunk, Thor moved restlessly.

The shadow resolved itself into a vaguely man-shaped outline, and glided across the floor, toward Sif. It paused, and, even though it had no face, Theoric knew it was looking at him. A low sibilant wheeze, just above the threshold of hearing, seeped into his ears.

He whispered, "You found the creatures? You gave them your . . .instructions?"

Another hiss, this one bearing a pleased, affirmative edge.

Then, the shadow bent over Sif's body, and enfolded it, and Theoric turned his head away, so that he didn't have to see.

When he looked back, Sif was also sitting, on the edge of her bunk, her eyes gleaming red in the darkness; the blood on the floor had vanished, and her fingers, clasped tightly over her knees, were white and clean.

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A metaphor of frost, and the fire's reality

**_Storm's Eye_ **

**_Part 10/20_ **

_In the Southern Mountains. . ._

They left the sheltered alcove at first light.

After a moment's wry contemplation of his bloodied tunic, Loki had conjured a new one for himself, flexing the magic tentatively after the previous day's avalanche of pain, and meeting Sigunn's questioning gaze with a half-smile that denied existence to the whisper of pain hissing down his spine. They had shared a very meager breakfast from Sigunn's small store of provisions. Then, as he resaddled Hrafn, Loki had glanced at her, as she stood beside Bruni attempting to wrestle her hair into neatly-plaited submission, and said, "One more night in the mountains, and then you will have your day of reckoning with your father."

He paused, and added, "Has he been expecting it, I wonder? And dreading such a coming day?"

Sigunn looked up, her eyes cold. "I doubt it. I am the least among my father's daughters."

From their hidden camp, the path climbed steadily upward, through glades of moss-hung evergreens and gardens of jumbled, rounded boulders. Gradually, as morning surrendered to warm afternoon, the trees around them grew smaller, stunted and twisted by the cruel winds of untold winters, until at last they failed altogether, and the path widened and wound around a wind-softened shoulder of gray rock into a broad green valley, surrounded on three sides by the serrated ridges of the Southern peaks. On its final side, the valley gave way suddenly to a great vault of light and air, a giant rift in the mountains. The path skirted the edge, as if challenging the traveler to look out into the void.

Loki heard Sigunn give a soft exclamation of delight; when he twisted in the saddle to look back at her, he saw her rein Bruni to a halt and slip off his back. Dismounting himself, he found her bending over a tuft of small shrubs clinging to the outermost edge of the towering cliff, their branching stems leaning out over the vast space. When he crouched beside her, she opened one hand to reveal a cluster of knobby orange berries; many more nestled among the glossy green leaves.

"Cloudberries."

He quirked a skeptical brow at her. She smiled. "Well I don't know about your rugged  _jotun_  constitution, my lord, but my fragile Idisi body is beginning to pine for food in a particularly insistent manner."

When she'd eaten several handfuls, they stood for a moment, looking across the enormous expanse, to where another soaring ridge reared up like a rising wave written large in stone, a line of peaks behind it marching east into the hazy blue distance. A cool breeze stirred Sigunn's cloak. Far below, the thin ribbon of the South Road wound its way along the canyon floor.

Loki's eyes traced its length, and his face hardened. Sigunn followed his gaze, and asked, "Will they keep to the Road? Prince Thor and. . .the rest of them?"

"I think so."

"You're not certain?"

"He might yet come after me, in truth rather than show. We didn't part on the best of terms, yestereve."

"Yes." She glanced up at his still, set face. "I noticed. There was a great deal of anger between you."

He expelled a silent breath, and looked away.

Sigunn's eyes traced his profile, its lines sharp and clear against the sky. A memory struck her, then, like a fist to the chest: the princes, both of them, walking along the city's chief promenade, the citizens lining either side, silent and cold. The air had been diamond clear that day, too, achingly beautiful, and she remembered, oh how she remembered, the awful juxtaposition of the sunlit blue and the younger prince's proud face, strangely unmarked while the rest of his body bore the brutal evidence of his sojourn upon the Tree. And the crown prince, holding his brother's shackled arm, and the open, brittle hatred in Loki's eyes. She remembered it: the sight had been terrible then, and now, her knowledge of him grown so much more deep, the memory was unbearable. She squeezed her eyes shut to drive the vision away, and her hands contracted into rigid fists.

"Sigunn?"

Loki was looking at her curiously.

"What are you thinking of?'

The strong desire to evade his question clutched at her throat, but the vow she'd made prevented that, and so she said, unhappily, "Prince Thor . . .he brought you back, after. . .

"From Midgard."

"And from the Tree."

Loki's jaw tightened. But his eyes remained on hers. "Yes."

Sigunn shook her head. "How could he?" The words burst out with a sudden heat. "I know he must do as the Allfather commands, but how could he? How could it have come to that between you?"

He was silent, his eyes sliding away from her, to the proud sweep of the peaks beyond, silent for so long that she thought he wouldn't answer. But then he said slowly, "It was like a hoarfrost."

A crease appeared between her brows, as her eyes studied his face. In the silence, in the glassy light, he felt his chest tighten, as he sifted through the images in his mind, searching for another way to make his meaning clear to her. But, before he could speak again, she said, musingly, "Once, when I was just a child, there was a frost, in late spring."

When he looked down at her, she continued, "My father had caused a new vineyard to be planted, the summer before, and the vines were still young, and tender. They'd already begun to green; the buds were swelling. But a night fell clear, and cold, and the next morning . . . well, I was a heedless girl; I thought it was beautiful. Like tendrils of glass and white velvet. And I ran out into the field, and reached out to touch one of the frozen vines. . ."

"And it shattered."

"Yes. The entire field was lost. Irretrievably. The next day my father's servants plowed it under."

A knot began to unweave itself, in his heart, a knot he had not known existed until that moment. He looked into her eyes, warm with understanding, and knew, because there was no need to explain himself, that he could.

"With Thor and I. . .we were like a green branch growing. But words were spoken and deeds were done- -mine, his, Odin's, others- - and a thin film of ice spread over the branch: so thin, so delicate, you'd not have known it was there, unless you looked for it. But it never melted; it built, instead, word by word, deed by deed, over and over, until the green branch was covered over with sharp, thick crystals, and, though it might have been alive, still, underneath, in truth it was already lost. Irretrievably."

Sigunn said softly, "And when the weight of the frost grew too heavy, too hard to bear. . ."

He nodded. "The branch snapped, and fell."

( _Falling. Falling away, from his father, from his brother screaming his name. The ruined Observatory crackling with destruction falls into the void below him, and the blackness of the space between the stars is taking him, but all he feels is the cold. All he hears is the scream. It is only after he has fallen for an infinite time that he realizes the scream is his own_.)

Sigunn's voice's, low and warm. The memory shrunk away, the black void fleeing until he was looking instead into her dark eyes. WIth an effort, he focused on her face, on her words. She was saying, "Could not a new branch grow? Perhaps not the same shape and form, but still green? Your brother. . ."

"No!" He heard the harshness in his own voice, and he looked away, swallowing the bitterness. "No," he said again, quietly. "Sigunn, I have no brother. We did not spring from the same tree. Thor is rooted deep in the soil of Asgard. As I am not."

In the breath of silence that followed, she reached out and touched his arm.

"Perhaps . . .that sets you free."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I have roots, stretching back further than anyone could see. I know the names of my mothers for twenty generations past. And their fates. The entire history of the Idisi lies under my feet. And yet, here I am. . ." Her voice trailed away.

"Here you are?"

"Yes. The last remaining leaf on the skeleton of a giant tree, a tree that has borne only sorrow." She smiled, though her eyes were bleak. "So, you see, rootedness is not always the blessing it may seem, at first glance."

His eyes warmed, and then slowly he shook his head. "Only sorrow? I see no truth in that."

She tilted her head toward him. "Only cold and frost? I see no truth in that, either."

"So we are, both of us, speaking nonsense?"

"It would appear so. And yet, I recall someone, naming no names, advising me not so very long ago that nonsense is a potent weapon."

"Surely not. What fool would say such a thing?"

"No fool."

"You do me too much honor, I think."

She cocked her head further over, studying him with a mock severity that drove the last shadow out of his eyes. "No. No, I think I give you the honor you deserve."

He grinned, and leaned closer, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body, and he said, "Do you know what I think?"

She raised a brow. "Does it have anything to do with food?'

_I think you need to be rid of Theoric Gyrdson._

He said instead, "I think we should continue on, before nightfall traps us out here on the peaks."

They both turned to look out over the green valley. A braided stream wandered aimlessly through it, and then curved sharply, and entered an opening between two sloping walls of rock. Loki pointed and said, "Our path lies that way; if I remember aright, it will begin to angle downward, into another open valley or two, and then back into the trees, where we can find a place to lodge."

They crossed the valley at an easy canter, into the slender opening. It proved to be a narrow, steep, rock-walled ravine, and the gentle valley stream turned ragged and white, leaping from rock to rock, the rushing thunder of its passage loud in the confined space.

Loki's eyes wandered upward, following the inward-leaning line of the ravine's walls. The thin slice of visible sky was growing gray, and the shadows deepening; a chilly wind scurried along the ground, swirling around the horses' hooves and making them prance uneasily. Loki had never been fond of closed-in places, and he found himself disliking this one more with each of Hrafn's strides.

The wind increased, and in its hissing voice he heard a low, warbling moan.

Ahead, he saw Sigunn's back stiffen. Her head was tilted back as well, eyes searching the ravine's rim far above.

"Loki?"

"I heard it."

Ahead the ravine's wall curved, and as they rounded it, Loki eyes widened with relief to see the brighter light and opened-out walls of the ravine's end. The stream beside them tumbled down a ragged staircase of rocky shelves; it gathered itself into a swirling pool, and then plunged abruptly over a lip of stone, where the roar of its falling echoed hollowly. The path hugged the ravine's near wall, swerving sharply away from the stream, and the light beyond was white and airy, an impression of height and open space.

Sigunn had urged Bruni into a trot, her eagerness to be free from the ravine's shadow evident in the tight line of her back.

The muted, wavering moan sounded again, much nearer. Loki's heart suddenly clenched, a sick, tight lurch.

He heard Sigunn gasp, saw her yank frantically back on Bruni's reins. The stallion lifted his forelegs into a half-rear, whinnying in sudden fear, as a dark, blocky shape shambled around the curve of the wall, and stood in the ravine's mouth, black eyes glittering with malice.

A rock troll.

Its towering body was armored with a carapace of thickened plates of rocky hide, a glistening black ichor oozing at the joints. It was clothed in a brief loincloth fashioned from the untanned hide of a mountain sheep, and the sheep's skull still dangled swinging from the creature's hip. Its arms hung long and loose from shoulders bulky with muscle, hinting at a terrifying, brutal strength, and its fingers curled and uncurled themselves as its eyes shifted from Sigunn to Loki and back again. A low rumble emerged from somewhere deep in its chest, and then its mouth opened and a gravelly voice grunted, "You. . ." Its lips stretched into a hideous parody of a smile. "Well met, O prince."

_'Prince'? It knows me? It can't have been waiting for us?_

"You'll forgive me if I don't echo that sentiment," Loki said, his eyes sweeping the barren walls and floor around them. Battling such a perilous foe in this enclosed ravine was unthinkable, and yet the troll obstructed the pathway forward, and he and Sigunn could not suddenly take flight, or swim down the waterfall. Within the circle of the chain's venomous grip, the only weapons truly at his hand were the ones created from the lightest magic: illusion, deception, and the conjuring of small objects.

Bruni was backing urgently away, his hooves sliding on the wet rock along the stream's edge, his terrified eyes riveted on the troll, who lifted his head and let out a low, hooting call. An answering moan came wavering through the ravine; another troll, perhaps several more, were blocking any escape back the way they'd come.

"Sigunn," Loki said, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "When there's an opening, run."

She nodded, face white with fear.

The troll grinned, a sharp cruel grin that took pleasure in her fear.

Loki lifted a hand, an empty hand. And when the troll's eyes were inevitably drawn to it, he filled it with wet, icy snow, and flung it with all his strength into the troll's eyes.

The creature roared, lifting its long arms to claw at its face. Instantly Loki was off Hrafn's back and now his hands were filled with a long wooden staff, gleaming dully in the gray light. Before the creature could clear its vision, he ran forward, spinning the staff, and struck the troll along the side of its skull with a deafening crack.

It howled, stumbling back a step. Loki reversed the staff, bringing it back around, thrumming with ominous intent. Blearily the troll saw it coming this time, and raised a forearm to block it. It slammed into its arm above the wrist, and, as the creature reeled away from the sudden pain, the pathway out of the ravine was, for an instant, clear.

"Go," Loki shouted.

The stallion leaped forward, past the troll in one giant stride, as Loki spun the staff and then thrust it into the troll's throat. The creature's hand shot up to grasp at it, and Loki jerked it down, out of reach, and then rammed it forward, against the troll's armored belly, knocking it back another step. Sigunn disappeared around the ravine wall; he heard Bruni's hooves clattering down the rocky path beyond.

The troll was wary now; its eyes locked on the staff. Loki allowed himself the briefest glimpse, over the troll's shoulder, measuring the distance to the stony lip of the waterfall.

_Come, troll. Let's see how well you fly._

He circled around, staff held ready, and the troll shifted its feet to follow him, its eyes narrowing as Loki stepped into the stream. The rocks were slick beneath his feet, the onrushing water clutching at his boots, avid to sweep him forward and send him over the edge. The troll's head leaned forward, so clearly puzzled that Loki smiled grimly.

"If you want me, you'll have to come in and get me."

Still the troll hesitated.

"Oh, come now. Surely you don't fear a little water."

"I fear nothing, little man." The troll's voice rumbled angrily.

"Good for you. Come and fight me then."

Despite its words, the troll's movements were cautious. It planted one foot in the stream's pool, and then another. Loki backed away, lifting the staff, two of his fingers tracing a curious circular pattern against the wood.

And then, there was a sudden movement, at the mouth of the ravine. Loki's eyes swept past the troll, face suddenly tight, as Sigunn's small form appeared, white cloak thrown back, horsehead dagger held low.

The troll saw his expression change, and the thick neck turned, the eyes widening slightly as it saw her there.

And in that moment, as the massive head swiveled away, Loki took a running leap, planted the staff between two large mossy rocks in the center of the stream, and vaulted forward. Both of his feet struck the troll's torso with all the weight of his flying body behind them. The troll teetered and stumbled backward, eyes dilated with sudden terror, arms windmilling wildly, and then the eager rushing stream seized its feet, and it fell, howling, over the waterfall's brink.

Loki fell, too, with a bone-jarring, splashing thud. He flung out a hand to grasp the staff, and prevent himself from following the troll over the verge, using it to lever himself out of the water. Then he waded out of the stream and eased his way carefully along the stones at the lip of the waterfall, and looked over. Far below, in the fall's deep green pool, the troll's body lay sprawled half in, half out of the water, spine bent at a deadly, backwards angle. A cloud of dark blood was slowly spreading around it.

The sound of running feet. Sigunn burst around the edge of the ravine wall and then slid to a stop, staring in astonishment at the sight of herself, poised with a dagger beside the stream.

Loki smiled. "Forgive me, Lady. I've been rather free with your person."

He lifted a hand, twisting it closed, and the maiden shimmered and disappeared.

"Thank you," he said, "for providing such an excellent distraction at just the right moment."

"I'm . . .happy to contribute in some small way." She gazed at him, a corner of her mouth lifting. "Truly, my lord, did you just battle a troll with a handful of snow and the illusion of a queen's handmaiden?"

Loki leaned on the staff and pursed his lips, nodding. "I did. Those aren't the customary weapons?"

"I have no idea, but I would venture to guess, no."

"Well, I am nothing if not unconventional. Feel free to admire."

"I hope you'll consider yourself thoroughly admired."

A low, rolling moan wavered down through the ravine. Sigunn's smile vanished, and Loki's face darkened.

"They're at the far end of the ravine, no doubt expecting us to flee back up the trail in panic. They'll surmise, soon enough, that some ill fate has befallen their comrade. I think we should be on our way."

"I couldn't agree more!" Sigunn spun on her heel, and ran.

Hrafn had pressed himself against the ravine wall, his haunches trembling with fear. Loki ran a hand along his neck, speaking low, and then swung into the saddle and followed after Sigunn at a rapid trot.

The pathway inclined sharply downward from the ravine's mouth, angling along the side of a steeply slanted shoulder of rock. Behind him the waterfall poured endlessly out of the ravine, its glittering spray scattering the lingering rays of daylight. The valley below was already sunk deep in shadow.

Bruni stood, pawing the ground uneasily, at the bottom of the slope, where Sigunn was climbing into the saddle using a large, moss-covered rock as a mounting block. She whirled him around as Hrafn galloped by, and fell in behind at a full run.

The trail weaved through the bowl of a boulder-choked glen. When Loki glanced back up, over his shoulder, he glimpsed three dark, stocky shapes, gathered above in the mouth of the ravine. They were staring down into the waterfall's pool; after a moment, the faint sound of their enraged wails washed over him.

At the end of the glen, the ground sloped gently, in a rocky, gravel-strewn ridge between two higher spines of rock. The pathway meandered upward, in serpentine curves. The two horses, black and red, thundered along it, their hooves throwing up huge divots of earth and moss, cresting the top of the ridge and plunging down the other side.

Into a valley filled with trolls.

Dozens of black, lidless eyes glittered in the setting sun's rosy light. Hrafn skidded to a stop on his haunches, his eye rolling back in primal, instinctive terror. Loki felt Sigunn's leg crushed against his own as Bruni's sweat-streaked body lurched heavily into Hrafn's.

In the center of the path before them, a blocky form unfolded itself, its rocky carapace mottled gray and lichen-green. The sigils carved into its shoulders marked it as a battle-chief, and Loki focused all his will and mind on the creature's glassy eyes.

"Let us pass," he said, mildly. Underneath his knees, he felt Hrafn's body shaking.

A dark slit opened in the creature's jaw, and a grinding rattle emerged, which Loki identified, after an instant, as a humorless chuckle.

"I think not," the troll said, and then, turning its head, its eyes slid across Sigunn's face and body, slowly, and it laughed again. It said, more loudly, so that the others crowding about could hear, although its eyes returned to Loki, "He said that you would not come by the high paths. Our main force lies in wait down on the Road."

_He?_

"Unfortunate for them."

"Yes. Now we will gain glory in the sport of ending you, little prince."

Beside him, he heard Sigunn's indrawn breath. He lifted his chin, and said, eyes hooded. "You have fifty. . .warriors." The disdain dripping off the last word sent an angry murmur rumbling through the trolls. "I have myself, and the lady. . . and two horses. Can this truly be deemed sporting, do you think?"

The troll chief shook its head, a slow, grinding movement. "You seek to provoke me into single combat? It won't work. He warned us of your clever tongue."

"This "he", who has given you such valuable counsel?"

"Someone who craves the pleasure of the lady's company."

"But not mine? How rude."

"He has a different end in view, for you, princeling."

"Should I be flattered?"

"No. And as for your horses, they will provide us a fine feast, this night. After you are dead, and the lady is ours."

The grating sound of rocks rasping against rocks, to the sides and behind. The trolls were moving, surrounding them. The horses huddled closer together, their terror kept in check only through trust in their riders. Sigunn's breathing was fast and shuddering with fear, and, in the corner of his vision, he could see the white knuckles of her hand, the taut muscles of her forearms, as she fisted the reins with all her strength, fighting Bruni's animal instinct to break and flee.

The troll chief stepped back, raising one of its hands in a negligent gesture.

"Take them," it said, "Bring them before me."

Two hulking trolls lumbered past it, striding forward with a loping, ground-eating gait. At once, Loki let Hrafn's reins fall, conjuring a curved, razor-edged blade into either hand, and as the stallion skittered sideways, he flung them simultaneously, a twisting, liquid flicker of his hands. The blades spun through the air with a deadly hum, and impaled themselves in the throats of the advancing trolls, in the small, unprotected crevices where the trolls' rocky carapaces were jointed at the jaw.

They both fell to their knees, grunting and pawing wildly at their necks.

For an instant, stunned silence gripped the valley. And then, with moaning cries of rage, trolls advanced from every direction.

Hrafn leaped sideways, as Loki bent forward, grasping for the swinging reins. He caught the barest glimpse of Sigunn as Bruni reared back, his ears flat against his skull. He saw her foot slide out of the stirrup, and, before she could regain it, she was flung out of the saddle by the stallion's twisting, terror-stricken movement.

She curled her body into a tight ball, her arms crossed over her head in an instinctive gesture to protect herself. Bruni's feet landed on either side of her, and instantly the red stallion reared up again, as three trolls reached for him. He struck out with his forelegs, his hooves cracking loudly against troll hide, and then, with a scream, he bounded out of reach, and galloped away.

Sigunn sprang to her feet, and stumbled sideways, ducking a troll's grasping hand. Loki had regained Hrafn's reins. He spun the stallion again, out of reach of another troll, and then spurred him forward. He leaned to the side, and as Sigunn whirled, her eyes seeking him desperately, he threaded the horse between her and the trolls, and pulled her up into the saddle in front of him.

"Take the reins," he shouted, and, as soon as she did, he filled his hands with another conjured staff, this time of gleaming dark metal, its end tipped with a cruelly barbed spearhead.

"Keep him moving. Don't stop." Sigunn nodded, and she reined the stallion sharply to the side, exposing the troll who was lunging for the stallion's head to the deadly thrust of Loki's spear. He plunged it into the jointed space between the shoulder and the chest, and twisted it viciously as he pulled it out, dripping with dark blood. The troll howled, and fell, and Sigunn wheeled the stallion away from it.

"Three down," Loki said, and despite their grave peril, there was grim humor in his voice. "Forty-seven more."

Sigunn shot a glance at him, over her shoulder, her mouth twisting, for a moment, into a shaky smile.

Hrafn's shoulders were streaked with foamy lather, but he heeded the hands on the reins, and twisted and leaped, and when Loki had speared four more trolls, a careful space began to appear around the horse.

The troll chief was shrieking with an almost incandescent fury. "Stand back, you fools!"

It bent and seized a stone from the valley floor, a round boulder as big as a man's torso, and hurled it at Hrafn's skull. Instantly, the trolls gathered around him followed suit, a deadly volley aimed at bringing the stallion down.

Loki flung out his hand; an iridescent sheet of green light materialized over the stallion's head. The stones struck it, one after another; there was an explosion of green sparks as they ricocheted sharply away.

But this was no light magic. Loki's body slumped against Sigunn's back, as he absorbed the chain's venom. His gasp of pain vibrated through her chest.

Hrafn had reared back in terror. Loki's arm curved around her waist as they both leaned forward to stay astride him. And then a troll darted forward, daring the reach of the spear, and seized the stallion's reins.

The trolls were hefting more stones to strike again. Sigunn could feel Loki gathering himself; her stomach churned with sick fear. The next burst of magic would cripple him; he would be rendered defenseless.

She twisted; she looked into his eyes and she said, "No."

His eyes widened, his arm tightened around her, but she slid out of his grasp, flung her leg over Hrafn's neck, and leaped to the ground.

The trolls dropped their stones and lunged for her; she eluded them, her small frame a momentary advantage. She sprinted forward, across the rocky ground, straight toward the troll chief, whose flat eyes watched her come, wide mouth lengthening into a smile.

Behind her she heard Loki shout her name. An involuntary glance over her shoulder: he'd recovered enough strength to rip Hrafn's reins away from the troll. He was bringing the spear up and around to strike.

The trolls were watching her now, most of them; their eyes gleaming as she slowed to a walk, and then stood facing their chief. They muttered in satisfaction as she reached out imploring hands.

"Please," she said. "Please. Let us pass. Don't do this."

The trolls rumbled with laughter and guttural-voiced jests. They had heard such words many times: the prey groveling for its life.

"Do you beg, woman? Do you plead?" A thick black tongue emerged from the troll chief's mouth as it licked its lips. "Do it again."

"Please. Please, I  _am_  begging you." A tear in the corner of one eye slipped free. The troll reached out with a thick finger and touched it.

"Your wretched pleading will do you no good. We will kill him, regardless."

"I do not plead for him."

The troll frowned.

"I plead for you."

It dropped its hand; it took a step back, uncertainty clouding its eyes.

"Let us pass. Please. Please!" She leaned forward on the last word, choking as it ripped out of her throat.

The troll chuckled, a forced sound that died away.

"Will you let us pass?"

"I will not."

The troll bent toward her. She stared into its blank, soulless eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I would do anything, anything but this."

Tears were sliding along her cheekbones, dripping off her jaw. The trolls around her looked uneasily at one another; pleading and sobbing they understood, but this. . .this was something new.

She turned her head. She looked across the valley to Loki; he was wrenching his spear out of a troll's torso, and the reversing it backward into a another's eye socket with such force that she could hear the neck crack even here. Trolls were converging on him from every side, but his eyes were fixed on her, and across the valley she heard him shout her name once more. She gazed at him for a moment. "I'm so sorry."

Then, slowly, her eyes came back to the troll chief.

She whispered, brokenly, "Forgive me."

Then, as its grasping hands reached out for her, she threw back her head, opening her breast to the sky, and flung wide her arms, and unleashed the battlefire.

* * *

**_And here we are, halfway through-ten chapters out of twenty!_ **

**_This, right here, with the Chained Trickster and the Victory-Bringer and a valley full of rock trolls, was the first scene I wrote for this story, although of course what I jotted down back then and what you just read are two rather different things. Nonetheless, I'm feeling a bit of a warm nostalgic glow as I post this chapter._ **

**_I'm also realizing that I really should have included rock trolls in my apologetic Story Notes, since, as any of you who might be Marvel Comics fans will have noticed, these are not exactly Marvel!trolls. Sorry about that. These are actually Rene!trolls, created at my whim to serve the needs of the story, and also because I really cannot be content with any story that does not contain the word "ichor" in some context._ **

**_Oh dear. Long, overly-chatty author note. My apologies._ **

**_If you've read this far, you are the soul of patience, and deserve many accolades. As always, thank you for reading-truly, I'm honored! I'd love to hear your feedback-it always makes my day!_ **

**_Rene_ **


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flames and blood; the arming of the warrior; and the careful wording of Odin's bargain. . .

Storm's Eye

Part 11/20

_In a high mountain valley, as the sun sinks. . ._

A thick column of fire rose into the darkening sky, its red glow merging with the pink-tinged sunset. A thousand tongues of flame weaving themselves together, a wild, frenzied dance of fire and wind, and at its core, the figure of a woman, her hair unbound and her face uplifted into the center of the fire's vortex. She was a nymph in a flaming sea, a Valkyrie astride a fiery steed, a goddess of fire.

The Victory-Bringer.

As the fire erupted, the troll battle-chief threw itself backwards, stumbling and scrambling, falling to its hands and knees and clutching at the ground to pull itself away. Glossy blisters spread across its rocky carapace, and its eyes streamed blurry tears from the roaring heat, but it could not prevent itself from looking into the heart of the flame. And so the troll saw the woman lower her head and her arms, bending her neck like a slave to its master, and then lifting her chin again.

She opened her eyes. They were glowing with the blue-white heat of the hottest fire, like a star's heart, and when they focused upon the troll, it parted its lips to scream, a scream that emerged only as a throaty gurgle. She lifted her hand, palm out, the skin of her arm a pale, cool white in the inferno's radiant light; a graceful tongue of flame curled out, and, before the troll could move, before it could utter another sound, the fire entwined itself around it, and it was engulfed. In the space of a breath, its body bent and slowed, transformed into a smoking, black cinder.

The trolls all around, every troll scattered across the valley floor, began to moan in terror, backing away, some of them already turning to flee, stumbling over each other in their mindless fear. The figure within the fire spun slowly, with the infinite patience afforded by power, her star-white eyes sweeping the battlefield. The trolls felt her gaze, and knew, as it touched them, that it was the gentle fingertip of death itself.

She raised her arms, high over her head, twining them and crossing her wrists so that the palms faced each other, and spreading her fingers outward. The blazing column began to ripple and flow; it sprouted long branches of glowing red, with yellow flames flickering at their tips like leaves blown in a spring wind. A tree of fire, now, with a towering crown and a massive trunk so hot at its heart that it glowed blue. And within that heart, the wielder unwound her arms and opened her hands outward, and, with a flick of her fingers, severed the tree's hot yellow leaves from their branches. The flames exploded outward, growing in size and power as they rained down upon the battlefield.

They swept the valley, and the trolls, though they ran and fell and swerved and threw themselves flat upon the ground, though they cursed and pled and cried for mercy: they could not escape the fire.

In the midst of it, Loki stood and watched the flames fall, his hand on Hrafn's shoulder, the bodies of the trolls he'd speared piled at his feet. The stallion had descended into blind panic the instant the enormous column of fire had rocketed skyward, and Loki had leaped from the saddle and ripped off his tunic; he'd wrestled Hrafn down, and bound it over the stallion's eyes. Now the horse stood, frozen, ears flickering in every direction, as the air around him was filled with the roar of flames and the screams of dying trolls. The wound across Loki's ribs had re-opened during the day's battles; absently he wiped away the blood with the palm of one hand.

He could not take his eyes from the fire, from the inexplicable joining of its enormous pulsing power and the small, slim figure poised at its core. He saw the glowing white heat of her eyes as they glided over the valley, saw the supple dance of her arms as she wielded the fire, and, finally, as the flames tumbled toward him, he wrenched his eyes away from her, to watch as each troll was pursued, and trapped, and ended. The flames captivated him, fascinating in their strange, terrible beauty. They moved as if they had a mind of their own, as if they were, themselves, alive. Like dancers, they agilely avoided any obstacle; like wolves, they ran down their prey with an implacable single-mindedness that seemed to terrify the trolls more than the fire itself.

A troll was staggering toward him, its face disfigured by its horror and fear; Loki bent to seize his discarded spear, but there was no need. A red blade of flame dived toward him, arcing neatly around Loki and the horse, to seize and devour the troll before his eyes.

Then, it lifted and unfurled itself, and hesitated, hovering in the air, just a pace or so away. He felt no heat from it. Slowly, his brow creased with his own strange thoughts, he stepped forward and slid his hand into it.

Soft. Warm. The furthest thing possible from tortuous burning.

_How can this be?_

It twined itself around his arm, and then wrapped around his chest and back, its breath a warm caress. As it embraced him, he felt her in it; he knew her touch. And he knew also then that the fire was not merely alive: the fire was Sigunn herself. Her mind, her spirit.

His eyes stung with sudden grief; he understood, as he had not before, the terrible weight of the burden she bore. The Victory-Bringer. Every merciless stroke, every implacable pursuit, accomplished by her own hand. Every death she wrought would find its way back to the center of the tree of fire, and bury itself in Sigunn's heart.

A tendril of flame brushed his cheek. It kissed the curve of his lower lip, and traced the line of his jaw, and then, with a final sigh, it left him.

The valley floor was littered with the unmoving forms of the vanquished trolls. The battlefire, an enormous fiery vision of Yggsdrasil itself, grew larger, its branches stretching outward. From all around the battlefield, the yellow flames swirled up into the air, and curled in on themselves, and then raced back to reunite with the mother-fire, which burned hotter and bluer at its core as each of its daughters rejoined it.

Loki walked forward. Skirting the boulders and the trolls' blackened bodies, he angled his way toward the fire, his eyes on the woman within it. He could see the outlines of her body, gowned in a sheath of trailing flames, and the waving tresses of her hair as they blew in the fire's unceasing wind, and then, as he came closer, he saw that the body was no longer moving gracefully, but held upright in a rigid pose that suggested only a will of steel was keeping it upright. And then, suddenly, the arms fell, and the neck drooped.

There was a blooming silence, as if the air had lost all ability to conduct sound. With an enormous rush of wind, the tree of fire caved in on itself, its blazing branches breaking off and snuffing out; devouring itself, it fell, an avalanche of flame upon her bent head. Foaming clouds of red-edged smoke billowed outward, obscuring all his sight, and he threw up his arms to protect his face, and broke into a run.

When he lowered his arms, the fire was gone, vanished as if it had never been, save for a few drifting shards of smoke. Along the far edge of the valley's walls, the final sliver of the setting sun flared atop the peaks, and laid its golden rays on Sigunn, like a benediction, and then slid out of sight, plunging her into shadow just as Loki reached her.

"Sigunn?"

She turned to him. Her eyes were dark again, dull and utterly hollow; she stared at him, without recognition.

He reached for her, grasping her upper arms, peering down into her face, his jaw flexing as he swallowed the sick fear coating his throat.

"Sigunn?" he said again, his voice rough.

But she was looking past him, through him, her eyes unseeing, and she whispered, " _Hiti eda blod_."

Flames and blood.

And then, quietly, she collapsed, and would have struck the rocky ground, if Loki had not caught her as she fell.

* * *

_Earlier that afternoon, on the South Road. . ._

"My lord prince?"

The guard's diffident voice interrupted Thor's dark musings, as he studied the stiff lines of Sif's back. She turned in the saddle, flashing a curious, sharp glance back at the trailing guard.

Thor motioned the man forward. When the guard had spurred his horse and drawn abreast, he said, shortly, "Speak."

"It appears that we are being pursued," the man said, tilting his head back toward the Road behind.

Thor muttered a soft oath, and reined in his horse, turning him sideways and peering back down the way they had come. The Road had been climbing steadily, along the floor of a great canyon through the mountains, and here, from this vantage, he could see its long, swaying curves meandering away until the angles of the canyon walls closed in and hid it from view.

And, yes, there, at the furthest edge of vision, a small, dark shape hurrying forward along the Road's pale surface.

"Surely that can have nothing to do with us," the guard Theoric said impatiently; he had reined in his horse, as well.

Thor slanted a narrow glance at him, over his shoulder, and said, his voice flat, "Perhaps not. Or perhaps it does. We will wait here and let him approach. It is well to be. . . cautious."

He felt Sif's eyes raking his back; he could almost smell her suspicion. Well, he could hardly blame her. Such words had never before, in the entire course of his life, crossed his lips. But he had been searching for delays at every opportunity, slowing their travel in every way he could devise without being entirely obvious. And he was certain that she knew exactly what he was doing.

His lips thinned. Sooner or later, she would force a confrontation. And he wasn't prepared for that. Not yet.

The dark figure drew closer and grew more distinct, resolving itself into a horseman riding at an easy canter, a green cloak flying behind. Sunlight gleamed off a fair head.

Thor's hand tightened on the reins as he fought to keep his face impassive.

_At last. What took him so long?_

Rounding the final curve, the horseman pulled his horse to a flying halt, surveyed them all for a moment, and then swung his free arm across his waist, bowing theatrically.

"And here you all are," he said jovially. "Imagine my surprise."

"Fandral," Sif said, before Thor could speak. "What are you doing here?"

He grinned at her, though his eyes flashed at Thor. "Why, riding, of course. I set out for a ride yesterday eve, and I was having such a fine time, I just kept going."

Sif's face hardened, and she shot a quick glance at Theoric, who was struggling to convert his scowl into a thoughtful frown.

"You've come a long way for a pleasure ride," he said. His tone was skeptical.

"Ah, well, we all find our pleasures in different ways, do we not?" Fandral's voice was jaunty, but his eyes were cool as they scanned Theoric's face.

He turned to Thor, and added, "But since I've come upon you, so very unexpectedly, I'll just join your party, if I may?"

"Of course," Thor said. He wheeled his horse about. "Let's move."

But he waited a moment, holding his mount back until the others were several lengths ahead. Then he turned to Fandral, and raised a brow.

"What news?"

"I might ask you the same. The village back there is stirred up like a wasp's nest, every single one of them wanting to babble some tale to me of a red-bearded sorcerer and a mad lady on a horse. I could make nothing of it, and I finally had to stop my ears and flee them."

Thor grunted.

Fandral peered over at him, one brow raised. "You haven't been wearing a false beard?"

"I think that must have been Loki."

Fandral pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully. "He's certainly been very. . .busy, lately."

Thor glared at him. "Never mind that. What  _other_ news?"

Fandral's face grew more serious. He spoke quietly, keeping his eyes forward. ''I've done as you required, for all the good it will do. It was no easy task, let me assure you."

"But you succeeded? You've got something?"

Instead of answering, Fandral reached backward and patted his bulging saddlebag. His mouth curling sardonically at one corner. "Not at all my usual sort of sport. It was dashed difficult." He turned further, to shoot a glare at the bag, and then transferred the glare to Thor.

"Curses upon it all, Thor! We've always left this sort of thing to Loki." He gave the saddle bag a vicious jab with his finger.

Thor nodded, his eyes dark for a moment. "True."

Ahead, he saw Sif look over her shoulder at them; even at this distance he could see the red flash in her eye. He murmured to Fandral, "I cannot stomach this situation much longer."

Fandral nodded, his own face hardening as he pointed ahead with a subtle movement of his chin. "Still acting strangely?"

"Very. She attacked Loki with a dagger."

"What?" At the startled exclamation, both riders ahead looked back. Fandral mumbled an oath, and repeated more softly, "What? In your sight?"

"No. But I saw the wound, and . . . there was truth in Loki's eyes when he told me of it."

Fandral slanted a skeptical brow at him, but all he said was, "You've seen Loki? In the village?"

At Thor's curt nod, he added, "Why are you still pursuing him, then? You let him go?"

Thor gave him a stern look. "My purpose in all of this has always been to discover the truth about the gray shadow, and Sif and the guard's strange behavior."

"It has? Are you certain?"

Thor looked away, jaw flexing. "In any case, that's my purpose now."

"Well, have you determined that Loki did not steal the maiden away? Or do you merely no longer care whether he did or no?"

"Of course he didn't! In any case, the lady assures me that it was rather the other way around."

Fandral turned to face him fully, leaning one arm on his horse's withers.

"The other way around?"

Thor nodded, once.

"The little Valkyrie is claiming that she pulled Loki up onto a horse and carried him off?"

"I don't think that's what she meant."

"No matter what she meant, I would have paid three pieces of good new gold to see that."

Thor's eyes glinted at him. "Only three?"

Fandral laughed. "I'm a poor warrior. My purse has limits."

Thor gave him a skeptical grimace, and then spurred his horse forward. When he had joined Sif and Theoric in the lead, he said, "There is a bend in the road up ahead, and a sheltered spot under the trees. We will stop there, for the night."

Sif stared at him. "But there are at least two hours of daylight remaining!" Her eyes narrowed. "We should push forward!"

Thor raised his chin, face stern. "Fandral's mount is exhausted."

Theoric said angrily, "They will get even further away from us!"

"No," Thor shook his head dismissively. "I'm certain Loki will stop for the night as well. Surely his lady will be weary. They'll not be far ahead in the morning."

"What did you say?" Theoric's face reddened.

Thor turned his head, raising a brow.

"She is not _his_  lady. She is mine."

Thor's eyes measured him, but he said only, "A slip of the tongue. My apologies."

Theoric opened his mouth again, but Thor straightened in the saddle, his cold eyes holding the younger man's gaze, and Theoric subsided. "Of course," he muttered, looking away, "my lord."

They made camp in a small dell, back far enough from the Road to be hidden from any passers-by. One of the guards built a roaring fire, and two of the others set about preparing a frugal meal. Thor caught Fandral's eye, and nodded, and the swordsman wandered casually over to the pile of gear next to his unsaddled horse, and picked up the saddlebags. On the other side of the fire, Sif glanced at him, and then returned her gaze to the fire. She'd been staring into its depths, silent, for many long minutes. Studying her, Thor's heart bent with worry and grief.

_What happened to her? What is wrong with her?_

Useless questions. He'd asked them so many times, in his own mind, that they'd become a collection of meaningless syllables.

There was a heavy thud as Fandral dropped the saddlebag beside him. Then he crouched down, and murmured doubtfully, "You're just going to do this openly, right here in front of them?"

Thor looked over at him from under lowered brows. "Why don't you distract them with your brilliant conversation? Or, if they question me, you could challenge them to a duel."

Fandral's mouth twisted sourly. "I'll try. But you will be deeply in my debt, Odinson."

Thor's hands paused in the act of opening the bag. His head bent, he murmured, "Grant me something, will you? Don't call me that."

A puzzled frown creased Fandral's brow, but he said quietly, "If you wish."

Then he stood and circled around the fire to throw himself down between Sif and Theoric. Ignoring the irritated glances from either side, he remarked loudly, "This is just the sort of setting for some hunting tales, don't you agree? I'll go first. . ."

Thor spread the saddlebag's contents out before him. Then he gazed at them for a moment, preparing to do battle.

_So._

_Right._

_Here we are._

The books were ancient, most of them. He'd instructed Fandral to scour the oldest part of the Lore Vault, searching for any records or accounts that featured lists and descriptions of the Realm's creatures, even legendary ones, and these few were the fruit of that quest. They looked like pitiful foes, the books; surely he could best them, and force them to reveal their secrets.

But Fandral had been right. Before, they had always left this sort of thing to Loki. . .

( _His hand, clapping down on Loki's shoulder as he sat at the table, a young Loki, barely attained to manhood. His brother looks up, green eyes swimming back to the present from some faraway ocean._

_"Come, brother!" His own voice, filled with hearty anticipation. "The battle awaits."_

_"If we study them further, learn their tactics, we'll defeat them more easily." Loki's voice is eager. He holds the book open with a spread hand, his fingers tracing a line of runes. "Look, Thor. It says that. . ."_

_A derisive breath, blown out between his lips. "We know enough."_

_"We can never know enough." Loki's eyes are serious. "The warrior is armed more fitly with knowledge than with a sword."_

_Laughter, roaring up out of his lungs. "Where did you read something so ridiculous?"_

_Loki looks away. "I didn't.")_

Thor closed his eyes against the memory. Of course Loki hadn't read it; it had been his own opinion, openly expressed.

_How much scorn did it take? Before he no longer spoke his true thoughts? Before the laughter sewed his lips shut? How much?_

He opened his eyes again and faced the books. The answer lay in them. It must. And when he knew what the shadow was, he would know how to defeat it. Loki had been right, that day.

He glanced up; on the other side of the fire, Sif's eyes were gleaming at him. Fandral was gesturing grandly with one hand, the other arm draped over Theoric's shoulders, who was regarding him with stiff politeness. A grim set to his jaw, Thor picked up the first book, and flipped it open.

It took some time, for his mind to settle, for the runes to cease being a marching line of words and for their meaning to begin to sing in him. He'd read of course, long stretches of it, the finest education that his father and Asgard could provide, but when manhood stretched before him, and he'd left the halls of learning behind, he'd very rarely returned. Now, it slowly came back to him, the rigor and rhythms of study. He read, skimming, his eyes searching for the key words: shadow, heat, formless. The stories and records and lists unrolled beneath his eyes, faster and faster.

The fire burned down. Fandral's voice rollicked on, seemingly without pause, providing a background counterpart to the books' rhythmic singing. Whenever he glanced up from a page, Sif's eyes were on him, perplexed at first, and then more and more cold.

Just as the sun sank below the canyon walls and deep shadows filled the camp, he found what he'd been seeking.

He stared at the page before him, his mind struggling to accept what his eyes were reading.

He flipped the book closed to look at the title, the fourth one he'd skimmed; it was the account of an adventurer, from untold generations in the past, who had traveled throughout Asgard living strictly by his wits. He'd met all sorts of peril, and encountered every sort of creature that the world had to offer, and then, when he had purposed to journey home again, he had met a foe greater than any other, an enemy who could slip between the rifts of the world, a creature of fire and shadow. And he'd followed it. And he'd discovered its true nature.

Thor read the man's words again, his belly clenched into a thick knot.

And then, suddenly, he remembered something else.

He leaped to his feet. On the other side of the fire, Fandral's voice faltered, And Sif and Theoric stared at him, one gaze surprised and one filled with cold suspicion. He looked straight into Sif's eyes, his own afire.

_I know who you are now. And knowledge arms the warrior more fitly than the sword._

His eyes challenged her, to stand and face him. He was done with circling her like a  _huakr_ too timid to swoop in for the kill. Slowly, she averted her eyes, and turned her face away.

He strode over to his own saddle, leaning casually against a tree, and crouched beside it. From its bag he lifted the battered book he'd found in the stable. There was a reason Loki had sought out this book; he could feel the edges of it pulling at his thoughts. Holding the bent cover carefully, he opened it, smoothing out the first page. The dagger thrust had created a jagged rent in the picture, but it was still clear: a woman, wrapped in flame.

_Fire. It all comes back to that._

Soft footsteps, and a shadow falling across him. He looked up to find her standing there, her features carefully arranged in a mild expression of innocent curiosity. He stood, and waited.

"Thor, what are you. . ."

Her voice died away, her eyes fastening on the open book in his hand, on the ravaged but still discernible image of the Victory-Bringer. Her face contorted into a snarl, nostrils flaring; Thor squared his shoulders to face her, but before another moment could pass, one of the guards, who had been preparing his bedroll on the edge of the clearing, suddenly shouted incoherently, and pointed up over the trees.

Sif's face slackened, her eyes widening as she looked over Thor's shoulder, and her face turned ashen pale.

He spun around.

There, across the huge expanse of the canyon, on the mountain top opposite them, a column of flame rose toward the heavens, painting the sky red.

Fandral exclaimed, "By Odin! What is it?"

Theoric was backing away, shaking his head. "It can't be. She would not."

Behind his shoulder, Thor heard Sif's voice lower into a gutteral rasp as she whispered, "The battlefire."

* * *

It was the custom of Odin Allfather to watch the setting sun from the High Seat, to study the deepening golden light as it slanted, ever lower, through the glassy dome above, to trace the edges of the lengthening shadows with his hooded gaze. He allowed his mind to wander freely in these few moments, a small respite from the tight discipline of thought he maintained at all other times.

His mind, set free, turned at once to the south, and his eyes lifted from their contemplation of the room's dark borders to look up into the purpling sky above. He had searched for them in the Sight earlier that day, both of them, his sons, but the Sight had fought him like a vicious dragon, and revealed nothing.

Two of the bodyguard, who had impassively ushered the last remaining courtiers out of the room, were returning now, pausing to shut the tall twin doors at the room's far end. Before the doors could fully close, however, a dark shape came fluttering through the narrowing gap, an enormous raven, followed closely by another. They glided toward the throne, held aloft only by the mysterious air currents that wandered aimlessly through the cavernous space.

Odin watched them come, a small smile flickering across his lips. They were, in a peculiar way, his friends. Sometimes, he felt, his only friends.

Such is the burden of kings.

They alighted with a flutter of black wings on the sweeping arm of the Seat, and perched there, both of them, cocking their heads to the side in a twin motion that usually amused Odin. Tonight, it did not. Their red eyes were agitated, their breast feathers ruffled with tension, and both of them fixed him with a gaze that demanded his full attention.

"What troubles you?" he said aloud.

Now, as he regarded them, he felt the shadow of their strange uneasiness falling over his own heart. His frown deepened, and a knot of tension formed between his shoulder-blades. There were no other creatures in Asgard so sensitive to the discharge of dark energy as the ravens.

They felt something.

Someone, somewhere, was accessing an enormous amount of magic.

_Loki. Loki!_

He thrust himself upward to his feet; the ravens took flight and circled above his head.

He stood for a moment, his head down, his body rigid. Then, squaring his shoulders, setting his jaw, he sat again and summoned the Sight.

When it took him, its mood still cruelly stubborn, he pinned its neck beneath his foot at once, and demanded full submission. After a straining moment, it relented, and sent him soaring, in thought, toward the Southern Mountains.

He saw the fire from afar, the twisting, beautiful, deadly tree. He caught a glimpse of the small figure at its heart, and the tumbled, contorted bodies of many vanquished trolls. And finally, just as the Sight bucked angrily beneath him, and tore him away, he formed the briefest impression of a familiar figure, standing tall beside a black horse. Then the Sight ripped him away, and dragged him to Asgard, and flung him backwards into the Seat with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.

He sat, breathing heavily, the soaring column of flame filling his mind.

And then, slowly, another vision replaced it, a memory of a conversation.

( _He schools his face into stony blankness, but he allows his eye to show his disgust. He says, "Do you dare to bargain with me, Thanos?"_

_Thanos laughs, low. "Of course. I know you, Allfather, and I know you will not risk total war upon your precious Asgard."_

_"Then you should also know that I will never give up my son."_

_"Yes. I know that. A foolish sentiment, Odin, unworthy of you. But I will have him punished."_

_"He will be. He will face the justice of Asgard."_

_"As if the justice of Asgard means anything to me. He broke faith with me, this cowardly son of yours."_

_The Allfather smiles grimly, and says nothing._

_The gravelly voice added, "And my lady Death requires more satisfaction."_

_"Were not the deaths of so many, on Midgard and among the Chitauri, a rich enough meal for her? Has her greed no end?"_

_Thanos frowns, takes a step forward. "Speak respectfully, Allfather. One day you too will kneel at her feet."_

_He lifts his chin, disdainful. "This is not that day."_

_"No." The glowing blue eyes narrow. "But it will be the day of death, for many, many warriors, if you do not agree to my demand. You will chain him, in such a way that he can never escape."_

_"And if I do not?"_

_"Then I will indeed bring the sword of war. At once. And many Asgardians will die." His voice caresses the last word, savoring it._

_"I have the Tessaract."_

_The huge jaw tightens. "For now. But I will bring the battle nonetheless. For vengeance must be had."_

_A long, slow silence. Finally, Odin said, his voice rough with sorrow, "Very well."_

_"You will chain him. Forever."_

_"I will enchain him, in such a way that neither he nor I can ever break them."_

_A slow smile stretches the wide mouth. "Good. I will enjoy watching him destroy himself. He will not be able to resist. But it will be amusing to watch him try."_

_"He may surprise you." He already has, you fool. For the Tessaract lies in my hands now, and not in yours. Did that never give you pause?_

_"I think not." Thanos turns away, but Odin's voice calls him back._

_"And in return for this evil punishment upon my son, you will withdraw your armies from my borders, and you will cease to threaten the Realms!"_

_"For now."_

_"Keep this bargain, Thanos." His voice is low and dangerous._

_"Again I say: for now. Chain him, or total war will fall before another sun rises on Asgard."_

_A dark weight settling on his heart._

_"So be it.")_

Odin's hand clenched into a fist, on the arm of the Seat. A bitter smile curled his lips.

"Chains that neither he nor I can break. That was my bargain, Thanos. Neither he nor I."

He thought again of the towering tree of fire, and his eye blazed fiercely with the answering flame of hope.

* * *

Loki awoke, suddenly, ripped from the warmth of a healing sleep by a rasping, stifled choke. He lifted himself up onto one elbow, rubbing his hand along his ribcage as the sleep drained away. The wound had closed again; by morning it would be almost gone.

The fire he had conjured had subsided to glowing coals, each tinged faintly green; when he glanced up automatically to check the stars they seemed frosted with cold. Then he looked over toward Sigunn, a dark, prone form on the other side of the fire.

He had tended to her in the few ways that he could, hoping every moment that she would awaken: slipping some water between her lips, pillowing her head with her cloak, conjuring a thick fur and tucking it around her body. He had spoken to her, reaching out for her with his voice, but her boneless stillness silenced him. He despised the helplessness that choked his throat; he tried to ease the tightness in his chest with the thought that sleep might restore her, but in the deeper corners of his heart, he knew that 'sleep' was too innocent a word for the darkness where she was wandering.

The sound came again, muffled and harsh, and he understood what it was. She was curled into herself, her back to him, and even in the dimness he could see her shoulders heaving, her neck straining as she swallowed her own tears, as she stifled them in the folds of the cloak that she held in anguished fists.

Soundlessly, he rose, and crossed swiftly to her; before she could perceive him, or react, he lowered himself, lifted the fur, and lay beside her, putting one arm under her and one over and pulling her into his chest, into the curve of his body.

She stiffened, one hand grasped his arm to push him away, but he covered her hand with his own, and held it, and remained where he was.

She whispered, "I killed all of them. Even the ones who tried to flee."

He closed his eyes, absorbing the wave of relief that swept over him at the sound of her voice.

"Yes," he said.

Then, though he knew it was to no avail, he added, "There was no other choice."

"There is always a choice."

"There wasn't, not today."

After a long, silent moment, she said, her voice low and flat, "I am a monster."

"No, Sigunn." His voice softened as he murmured, "No."

She did not speak again. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers through her hair, adjusting her head until it rested on his upper arm, beneath his chin. Her body was trembling from the strain of containing her tears.

His arm tightened about her, and he whispered, "I will anchor you. Let fly."

She gave a great, shuddering gasp, and then the storm of weeping took her, the grief and rage and hatred and regret shaking her like a helpless leaf on a withered branch, wracking her, twisting her in their powerful grip.

But they could not bear her away.

Loki held her.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki Sky-Treader, and a feast of flame. . .

Storm's Eye

Part 12/20

_In the dark hours before dawn, in a clearing among the trees. . ._

Sigunn slept, wrapped in the tangled threads of troubled dreams, and Loki's arms.

He lay, his chin resting on her hair, listening to the dark and watching the stars wheel through the abyss. In his mind's eye, the battlefire burned like the end of all the worlds; the troll battle-chief's words beat a counterpoint to the flames' roaring:  _he said you would not come by the high paths. . .our main force lies in wait down on the Road._

The Road. The Road that Thor was following.

His thoughts circled, examining that fact from every angle. Was it possible that Thor had somehow prevailed upon Sif and the guard Theoric to abandon the pursuit and return to the city?

Yes.

Was it probable?

_Not in any of the Realms. They want her too fiercely._

So, it was likely, indeed it was almost certain, that, on the morrow, Thor would ride headlong into a large party of armed and battle-ready rock trolls.

Sigunn stirred, and his thoughts dissipated for a moment as his arms tightened around her. But as she settled into stillness once more, his musing coalesced again into a dark shifting mass of foreboding.

Of course, Thor and Mjolnir alone were a force equal to a formidable army of warriors, but . . . " _our main force lies in wait"_. . .

" _Main force"? How many might that be? One hundred? Two? An entire warband?_

Even Thor, for all his might, would not be equal to such a foe.

Loki eased his arms away from Sigunn, a hand resting for a moment on her shoulder; he frowned as he felt the tight tension in it, even in her sleep. He sat, one knee drawn up, his arms propped atop it, his head tilted back to stare upward. Idly, he flicked two fingers toward the fire, which flared up into sudden, startled brilliance, like a guard caught sleeping on the watch. He studied the sky with detached interest as the stars slid one by one into a sea of dark clouds. His brow was furrowed.

Thor would be riding into destruction.

_I cannot allow that to be brought down on Sigunn's head._

The voice in the deep vault of his heart whispered,  _I cannot have it on my own head, either. Not now._

Thor would have to be warned, turned aside from his course, and there were only two paths which would accomplish that end: he could lead Sigunn back down into another valley overflowing with trolls, or he could go alone this night and warn Thor himself. He could Walk.

The first option was unacceptable; he refused to contemplate it. That left only the second.

Loki was known by many names in Asgard: Prince, Odinson, Second-Son, and, just lately,  _jotun_. He also bore names spoken only in the palace halls: Silvertongue, Trickster, Spell-Singer.

But he possessed names, a few names, which he kept for himself alone. Horse-Lord. Wind-Shaper.

Sky-Treader.

He'd been able to Walk for as long as he could remember, a talent gifted him through the same currents of dark energy that fueled Odin's Sight. He viewed it as a magic both greater and lesser than Odin's: greater because it did not require a locus, while the Sight was tied to the High Seat; and lesser because it would not lead him or guide him as the Sight did for Odin. He could not seek others with it, and it certainly would not bear him throughout the Realms at the swift speed of thought. But Walking did allow him to be elsewhere, quickly, so long as that elsewhere did not require the use of his physical body.

But he had not attempted to Walk since the dark day when Odin had summoned him to the throne room and bound him in chains. He stretched out a hand, staring at it; he could almost feel the weight of the shackle clasped tightly about his wrist; he could see its venom-coated edges through the lens of bitter fury.

_(". . .I have paid your price! I have offered up the wergild, dripped it out of my own veins!" His voice echoing in the huge, empty room. He is backing away, one step, then two, and compels himself to stop. To stand tall before this one who had been his father._

" _Yes." Odin's face is molded in strange, harsh lines. "But you must accept this burden nonetheless. For Asgard, Loki."_

_Stunned rage clouding his eyes. His hands are shaking. "For Asgard?"_

" _You have no choice. I have no choice. . ." )_

With a sharp grimace, Loki beheaded the memory, and kicked it away. His hand had squeezed shut into a fist, and, with a conscious effort, he unfurled it, and forced his mind back to Thor. Thor and a warband of trolls.

He would Walk, and find Thor, and warn him off.

He pulled the fur up over Sigunn's shoulder, pausing to brush the angle of her cheek with the back of his hand. Then he closed his eyes, sinking deep inside himself, his mouth twisting sourly as he considered the deep well of power, so near at hand and yet so unattainable. He would have to siphon it off gently: Walk, somehow, without rattling the chains. If that were even possible.

Carefully, patiently, he separated his mind from his flesh, thread by thread, until his thoughts could Step away. For a moment, he lingered there, and then, he gathered himself, and Walked up into the open sky.

* * *

_In another clearing, far below. . ._

The fire burned, hot, the sap in the green wood snapping and bubbling; the odor of resinous smoke hovered in the air. Overhead, the moon sailed high and then began to sink, and the minutes crawled by, each so deliberately slow that Thor wanted to throw back his head and roar in frustration, or pace the clearing's perimeter like a caged wolf, or pound the unresisting earth with his fists. Do something. Anything.

Instead, he stood, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the still figure crouched before the fire: Sif, and yet not Sif. She, or it, stared into the fire's random patterns with unblinking eyes, the light carving strange shadows under her cheekbones. She had not moved for hours.

When the fire had risen over the distant peak, she had backed away, her face pale, her eyes burning with a fierce, lust-filled light, unable to tear her gaze away from it. And then, when the fire had disappeared, her eyes had returned to Thor, and then dropped to Mjolnir at his side; her glance had slid sideways, to study Fandral and the four guards, and then she had smiled, a mocking, brows-raised smile. She'd deliberately turned away from him, and walked to the bonfire in the center of their camp, and crouched beside it, and had neither moved nor spoken since.

Two guards stood posted on either side of her, the tension in their backs revealing clearly the toll her strange stillness was taking. The other two he had set as guards over Theoric Gyrdson, despite his loud and indignant protests.

"I am a nobleman's son. You cannot treat me as some common lawbreaker."

Thor had silenced him coldly. "I am Prince of Asgard. I can do whatever I will. And you are not guiltless in this business, Gyrdson. You know what has taken hold of Lady Sif. You know what evil has invaded Asgard. Perhaps you even allowed it entrance."

And Theoric's mouth had snapped shut, his eyes flickering over to Sif's silent figure, and then he also refused to speak again.

Now he slept, his head pillowed awkwardly on his arms, a guard on either side.

Fandral appeared at Thor's elbow; he'd been leaning against a tree, and now he brushed at the bark and leaf debris clinging to his cloak, his eyes on the hunched silhouette by the fire.

"By Odin, this makes my innards crawl. Are you certain?" he muttered. "It seems impossible. How could such a creature have entered Asgard?"

Thor nodded, one hand curling into a fist against his bicep. "Yes." And then, because it was Fandral, he added, "Mostly."

Fandral's voice dropped into a barely-audible whisper. "But we won't know unless we can provoke it to leave her."

Thor said nothing, only tapped the fist, once, against his arm.

"And how do you propose to accomplish such a feat?"

Thor only shook his head.

The fire had begun to burn lower, the logs to smolder ominously. One of the guards shot Thor a questioning look, and Thor nodded curtly. The man hurried off, to return in few minutes with an armful of hastily-trimmed branches. As he fed it, the fire flared up savagely; the guard sat back on his heels, leaning away from it. Sif remained unmoving; a faint sheen of sweat glistened on her brow.

"Why are we feeding the fire so greedily?" Fandral asked, his voice almost reluctant, as if he really would rather not know.

"The book said that it can see in the dark."

"But Sif cannot, and if it is using her senses. . ."

Thor looked over at him. "Would you care to risk it? If it should suddenly choose to attack us?"

"No, thank you, I see your point. Carry on."

But even with the fire's renewed vigor, the clearing seemed darker to Thor, the deep shadows pressed more closely around it. He looked up into the sky, and he could see the ragged edges of clouds, devouring the stars one by one, drawing a dark curtain over the brilliant constellations. Even as he watched, a thin cloud crawled over the face of the moon, first dimming it, and then hiding it all together. The darkness deepened to impenetrable black.

Fandral was watching, too, his face grim in the fire's flaring glow.

"I like that not at all. What if it brings rain?"

Thor opened his mouth to answer, but all that emerged was a slow hiss of breath, as he watched Sif stir beside the fire, and straighten her arms at her sides, and slowly rise to her feet.

The guards on either side raised their weapons, but she paid them no heed. She looked across the fire, into Thor's face, and she smiled, a slow, leering smile.

"I thank you, prince of Asgard." Her voice was low, and gritty, but he heard it perfectly.

"You have no reason for gratitude, creature."

"My reasons are my own." She laughed, low, almost soundless.

Thor's jaw tightened.

"We don't seek to amuse you."

"Oh, I know. You seek to free your lovely friend here." She reached up and spread her hand across her own chest.

Beside him, he felt Fandral's easy movement as he reached for his sword. He speared him with a warning glance, and said, "Surely that does not surprise you."

"I'm well aware of your kind, and your sentimental attachment to your fellows. And so I know you won't be pleased to hear that I have no intention of returning this lady to you."

It was horrible, listening to Sif's voice coldly discuss her own fate. Thor dropped one hand to Mjolnir's handle and growled. "We may give you no choice."

A slow, breathy chuckle slid out of her throat, and she lifted her chin to gaze at him, a red flash under her eyelids.

"It is you, Asgardian, who have no choices in this matter."

She looked up into the sky, and as she did the last remaining stars were swallowed up by the dark, hurrying clouds. Outside the ring of the fire's red light, the night was black as pitch, blacker than shadow. She lowered her gaze, and smiled malevolently at Thor. "But, nevertheless, as I said, I offer you my gratitude."

He knew the creature was baiting him, but he could not prevent himself from growling out, "For what service?"

"For providing me such a feast of flame."

Then she stepped forward, into the midst of the fire.

* * *

Only that one Step, and he met a wall of fire, of keening, incandescent pain. Razor-edged blades flaying his skin, laying bare his muscle and bone, and grating across raw nerve endings. Unbearable pain.

With a shuddering groan, he pulled himself back toward his body. The pain was disrupting his mind, making his movements excruciatingly slow. Dimly, he could hear someone calling his name, over and over. And then, as his thoughts rewove themselves into his mind and body, he realized that someone was holding his upper arms.

"Loki!"

He opened his eyes, drawing breath, to find Sigunn kneeling before him, horrified eyes staring into his face. When he focused on her, and forced a crooked half-smile, her chest heaved with relief.

"Loki? Are you well?"

"No. Apparently I am a very great fool."

He bent his head, riding the waves of pain as they receded. Then he said, grimly, "I woke you. My apologies."

Her hands tightened on his arms. "You were. . .gasping for breath. Your body was. . ."

He shook his head, and looked away, jaw taut. "That is the price one pays when one attempts the impossible."

"What were you trying to do?"

He peered back into her face, the lines of his mouth revealing such obvious reluctance, his eyes so conflicted, that finally she said, with a small smile, "Whatever it was, it cannot be as grim as fifty rock trolls."

"It might be," he said.

Her face tightened. "What do you mean?"

He said, "Yesterday, the battle-chief said that their band was not alone. That their main force lay in wait on the Road."

Sigunn's hand rose unbidden to her throat, and she said, "The Road? Prince Thor!"

Loki nodded. "If the troll spoke truth, and I have no doubt it did, since its purpose was both to boast to its fellows and to terrify its prey, then there is every possibility that Thor and the others will encounter a large troll warband sometime in the very near future. And so, just now, I thought to warn him."

The muscles in his neck tightened as he gazed past her, unseeing. "But I was. . . not able to do so."

"We must go to his aid then, at first light."

He shook his head. In the firelight, she could read the uneasiness written large in the troubled lines of his face.

Slowly, she said, "Why not?"

He looked down at her with eyes that were glittering with the memory of the battlefire's terrible beauty, and the reflected pain of her grief, of her sorrow.

He said, "You are not a weapon to be used, Sigunn." His voice turned harsh. "You are not a tool! Not in my hand, not in Thor's. I will not ask it of you."

"If I choose to wield the fire, then the usage is my own." She touched the back of his hand.

His eyes bored into hers, the question still swimming there. She held both of her hands out to him, palms upward.

"Truly, Loki. If if should come to that, if Prince Thor's safety lies in my hands, then my hands are open to him." Her eyes held his. "And to you."

He searched her face, and the truth he found there eased the tight lines from around his eyes. After a long moment, he nodded, and said, "So be it. At first light, we will find a way back down to the Road, and extract Thor from any. . .minor difficulties in which he may find himself. Then we will travel on, to your father."

"Yes, of course. It will be, at most, an insignificant side journey." She spoke lightly, and smiled.

A reluctant answering smile curled the corner of his mouth. "A mere trifle."

"A frolic, even."

He quirked a brow at her. "A frolic?"

She pursed her lips in mock thought, and then lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "One never knows when a frolic might . . .break forth."

Loki laughed. "I think I will defer to your judgement in such matters." He reached forward, and traced the curve of her cheek with the edge of his thumb. "Gentle Sigunn", he said, his voice lowering, tinged with humor, "who frolics with trolls. Truly, traveling with you is a never-ending parade of new experiences."

Then, as the tip of one finger smoothed the faint blue shadow under her eye, his face sobered, and he murmured, "You slept little."

"It was enough." The echo of her own weeping whispered through Sigunn's mind; she remembered his arms around her, his body against her back, an anchor. She said, softly, "Thank you."

In the firelight, she could see the white flash of his teeth as he smiled. "A fourth debt you owe me, then."

"I wonder if perhaps. . ." She paused, her eyes following the sculpted line of his cheekbone.

"Perhaps?"

"Perhaps we should cease keeping score."

"I think perhaps you're right."

_You wielded the fire for me._

And he had felt her touch in the fire; he thought of that, now, watching the light of this small fire wash over her face. He slid his hand into her hair, around the back of her neck. His eyes darkened as his thumb rested on the pulse behind her ear, and he felt the quickened beating of her heart.

Into the shadowed, fire-lit silence he said, "I wanted to kiss you. In the tavern."

"And yet you did not?"

He blew out a breath, and looked away, up into the starlit vault of the sky. "Wrong place. Wrong time."

"And now?'

He glanced around their camp, weighing it with mock gravity. "The place is . . .adequate. But as for the time. . ."

His eyes studied hers and he said, slowly, the humor fading out of his voice, "You are not free. Of him. And with you, my actions have been, and will be, entirely honorable."

She smiled, and said, "Mine as well. But I, too, wanted to do something, back there at the tavern. Something entirely . . . dishonorable."

He lifted a brow. "You astonish me. What might that have been?"

She leaned forward, and wound her arms around his neck; his eyes widened slightly in surprise and then narrowed in hooded anticipation. He bent his head to her, but she evaded his kiss, and slipped her head under his chin, and pressed her lips instead into the hollow of his throat, tasting his skin with the tip of her tongue.

A tremor of pleasure rippled down his spine, smoothing away the last vestiges of pain. He slid his arms around her, pulling her against his body. Slowly, she kissed her way upward, following the line of his neck, until he groaned, low in his chest, and muttered, "Honor is a damnable thing."

She lifted her head. "Yes, it is. Especially when Theoric Gyrdson had done nothing to deserve such honor from either of us."

"I do not honor him. I would like to end him, if truth be told. I honor you. And you honor your family. And the pledge."

"True." She smiled, wryly. "And thus, perhaps, I should resist any urge to continue this. . .foray into dishonor."

"Oh, no, no, no, no." His eyes glinted at her, alight with both the pleasure of the jest and the heat kindled by her lips on his throat. "No, I feel strongly that if you wish to engage in such . . .truly deplorable actions, you should be perfectly free to do so. I assure you I am not in the least offended."

"I haven't scandalized you? Are you certain? Do I need to try harder?"

"Please do," he said, voice low and warm, edged with laughter. "Dishonor yourself. Dishonor me. Spread the dishonor freely, my lady."

She reached up and traced the line of his lips. "Alas, I cannot. I guess I am not such a rogue as I thought."

"What a pity. But I hold out hope."

"In my roguish ways?"

"Well, I think that goes without saying, but no, my hope lies in your strength of character."

"How nice. In what particular way do you think my character will manifest itself?"

For a moment, his eyes gleamed with the same lightheartedness that threaded through Sigunn's voice, but then he said, his voice slowly shading more serious. "I think that the wall of your father's stubbornness will fall before your wrath. And he will reveal the truths you seek. And you will prevail upon him to break the thrice-bedamned pledge."

He leaned forward, and murmured into her ear, his breath warm against her neck, "Because I don't know if I have words to tell you, Sigunn Victory-Bringer, how much I despise that pledge between you and Theoric Gyrdson."

"Perhaps. . ." her voice wavered, then, as he kissed the soft juncture of her jaw and throat, lips lingering against her skin in a lengthy caress. She swallowed, closing her eyes, and finished in a whisper. "Perhaps almost as much as I hate it myself."

Across the clearing, suddenly, Hrafn lifted his head, an abrupt, alert movement that penetrated Loki's attention despite the all-absorbing warmth of the moment. His eyes sought the stallion, whose glossy head and neck reflected enough of the fire's glow to show that he was staring off into the trees, ears swiveling.

Loki lifted his hand from Sigunn's neck, reluctantly, and then rose soundlessly to his feet, his gaze searching the shadows between the tree trunks. Sigunn stood, too, and then suddenly she gave a soft cry, and ran forward, as a tall red horse stepped wearily into the firelight, saddle askew, and reins dragging along the ground.

"Ah," Loki said, stooping to retrieve the reins, as Sigunn stroked the stallion's neck, crooning soft words of welcome in the runespeech. "The wayward one returns."

Bruni's great black eye shifted to study Loki's face as he lifted his hands to remove the horse's bridle. "I hope you are heartily ashamed of your cowardice,  _raudr_."

The stallion lowered his head and butted it against Sigunn's chest. She laughed. "I suspect he is; see how he demands forgiveness." She smoothed a hand over the stallion's shoulders, and whispered, "There is no shame,  _hestr_." Her voice darkened as she added, "I would have fled them, also, if I had seen a way."

Loki looked up sharply at this patent untruth, but before he could speak, a cold wind swept through the camp, setting the fire to frantic dancing. He tipped his head back; the sky was wholly black now, all the stars veiled and the moon's face hidden. In the distance, thunder rumbled.

Sigunn looked up as well. "Is there a storm coming?"

Loki tilted his head, listening to the timbre of the thunder's voice. "I hope so."

When Sigunn turned a quizzical eye on him, he said, slowly, "I hope that it is only that, and nothing more."

* * *

Fandral lunged forward with a wordless exclamation. Thor leaped toward the fire; he could see Sif within it, standing to her full height. She spread her arms, and then curled them in toward herself, as if gathering the flames like a child picking wildflowers. The fire thinned, weeping smoke, and around her body a strange aura glowed, orange and red and cinder gray. It was a shadowy form, much larger than she, a powerful body, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, the edges of its silhouette wavering indistinctly.

Sif tilted back her head, and her mouth dropped open. Her breast rose and fell as she expelled a deep sigh, and then her shoulders rose as she drew breath, her eyes flickering closed. The fire around her swirled in agitation, and, then, in a continuous streaming ribbon of red and gold, she inhaled the flames.

The shadowy form grew more solid, like smoke made stone, until Sif's body could barely be seen. It raised its hands, looking from one to the other with its featureless face, and then it turned its head toward Thor, and raised its chin in a defiant salute, just as the last flame disappeared down Sif's throat, and the entire camp was plunged into darkness.

At once, Thor seized the Hammer and thrust it heavenward, summoning the lightning. With an earsplitting crack, a thick bolt of energy ripped the sky, grounding itself on Mjolnir's head and revealing the clearing in a flare of acidic light. Thor saw the four guards, frozen in fear and astonishment, and the figure of Theoric leaping to his feet, dashing the sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand. Fandral had drawn his sword, and, in the sudden window of light, was slashing a sideways stroke at Sif, as she stepped out of the fire ring, the shadowy figure gone once more. But she whirled to face him, her face contorted in sudden fury, and, as that moment tumbled into the next, a blade appeared in her hand, a wickedly-curved saber formed of smoke and glowing embers.

Thor released the lightning. Darkness took the clearing once more, the only light now the thin glowing edge of Sif's blade. He swung the Hammer, and in the sky above the clouds began to roll in agitation, and a chill wind shook the trees. He swung it again, and the clouds boiled. Thunder rumbled, and a jagged slash of lightning slammed into the ground on the clearing's far edge.

And then, with a shattering blast, bolts of lightning forked downward all around them, flooding the clearing with punctuated flashes of brilliant light and choking darkness.

Sif swung her blade, two-handed, and Fandral's flashed upward to meet it. With a shrill, grating shriek, the shadow blade sheered Fandral's sword off at the hilt.

Lightning. Then blank darkness, and the flashing edge of her saber.

Thor aimed at that, leaping forward, swinging the Hammer in a roundhouse stroke and releasing it in one movement, a groan of effort erupting out of his chest.

Lightning flashing. The barest glimpse of Mjolnir in graceful flight, and Sif, who should not have been able to move so quickly, somehow arching backward far enough that the Hammer flew over her body and into the darkness beyond.

Thor roared in fury. He was only a stride away from her now. He raised his hand, anticipating the Hammer's return.

Thick dark. Her blade no longer glowed.

In the blackness, he heard the deadly hum of Mjolnir's return flight. It smacked into his palm and he thrust it upward again, creating a gigantic bolt of light that joined immediately with two others spilling out of the clouds above, and, for a moment, the clearing was bathed in light.

Sif no longer stood before him. He whirled, to see her standing to his left, one hand wrapped around Fandral's throat. Beyond the reach of her own hand, Thor could see the impression of much larger fingers indented deeply into the skin of his friend's neck.

Both his hands were around her wrist, trying to wrench it away, but her arm was steady, as if carved out of stone, and she turned an amused face toward Thor.

"Lower your weapon."

Thor raised it higher.

"Lower it, now. Or I will suck the breath from his lungs and fill them with ash instead." She raised one brow. "Quickly. please. Don't test the limits of my patience."

Slowly, he tilted Mjolnir downward until its head pointed toward the ground. Around them, the wind stilled, and the lightning ceased to flash.

In the darkness, her voice was a dagger-thrust. "Do you think you know me, son of Odin, prince of Asgard? Do you presume so much?"

Thor growled. "I know you. I know what you are."

A low laugh. "Then you will know the futility of opposing me."

"Your kind have been defeated before."

"Perhaps. But not by you, Odinson. And I am a prince among my people. Your equal, in fact."

Thor could feel the rage choking his throat. "Release him. Release her!"

"You're in no position to make demands upon me."

Thor lifted the Hammer again, his lips curled in fury.

"Oh, yes. Strike me with lightning. See for yourself what happens when I swallow that much fire."

"Is that why you want the Victory-Bringer? To swallow her fire?"

The silence in the dark was tense suddenly. Cold.

The voice said, "I will have it. I will have her. And then. . ."

"What then?"

"Then I shall be prince no longer. I will be lord of all."

There was a sudden sound of movement, and a dim glow as the shadow blade reignited. She stood there, one hand around Fandral's neck and the other holding the saber, its glowing edge pressed now against his throat. He was looking directly at Thor, the furious message in his eyes clearly visible.

_Strike her down!_

But Thor lowered the Hammer once more, and she smiled, grimly.

"And here I thought the black prince was the clever one."

Then her face tightened, and her voice grew clipped. Her eyes shifted to one of the palace guards. "You, there. Rekindle the fire, and saddle two horses. At once, if you please." Her eyes came back to Thor. "Unless you'd like to watch your friend bleed out his life, here at my feet."

The guard looked to Thor, who slowly nodded.

As the guard hurried to do her bidding, she stood silently, her eyes never leaving Thor's. He stared at her, unblinking, his rage solidifying into a fist in his belly.

Only when the horses were prepared did her eyes shift, to Theoric. "Mount and ride, Gyrdson," she said. "Your lady awaits, up on the mountain."

Then slowly, as Theoric did as she bid, she looked back to Thor, and her voice deepened and roughened until it was no longer anything like Sif's.

"Know this, Prince. I will take the lady, I will drink her fire, and then. . ." she smiled, a smile of pure pleasure, "I will suck every particle of breath and life from your dark brother's lungs. And I will enjoy doing it."

Thor growled, the fist of rage exploding within him. He raised the Hammer.

Sif shoved Fandral away, with such strength that his feet left the ground. As he fell, Thor's eyes flickered toward him, for an instant, and in that moment Sif leaped onto her horse's back. One of the palace guards surged forward, grasping for the horse's bridle. Sif smiled at him, almost lovingly, and then the glowing saber reappeared in her hand, and she ran him through the chest.

Thor caught him as he slid off the blade.

Theoric was already galloping away into the darkness. Sif looked down at Thor, the gasping guard in his arms, and said, "One more matter, Odinson."

She held out one hand, studying it. "I've grown very fond of this vessel; she is strong and nimble. I know that you are fond of her, as well."

Thor had lowered the guard gently to the ground; he surged to his feet now, hefting the Hammer with murderous intent.

The blade disappeared. She spread her arms wide, and said, "Do it. Strike me down."

He raised the Hammer higher, his lips drawn back in a furious grimace.

But it was Sif. Even though it wasn't.

It was Sif. He could not strike.

She laughed, mockingly, softly. Then she leaned forward, and said, "If you follow after me, if some brave thought of saving your brother's life is filling your heart, let me assure you this: I will not hesitate to kill Lady Sif, lovely and strong though she be. I have another vessel, after all." And she tilted her head the way Theoric had gone.

"If you truly love your friend," the voice roughened again, "do not pursue me."

Then she spurred the horse forward with a vicious kick, and, in a thunder of hoofbeats, disappeared into the night.

* * *


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki-orchestrated chaos, once again; and the right place and time. . .

_**Storm's Eye** _

_**Part 13/20** _

_Along the Road. . ._

The Road flowed on before him, its pale curves visible only when the racing clouds overhead unveiled small patches of a sky choked with stars. Theoric knew he was trusting entirely to his mount's night vision, and his shoulders strained against the loss of control. His ears struggled to discern the changing tempo in the pounding hooves of the horse ahead, to tease out some hint of the bends and twists the road was taking.

At last, the clouds thinned, their frayed edges drifting away and allowing the brilliant starlight to illuminate the road as it curled this way and that through a long, open field of tumbled boulders. He saw that Sif had slowed her horse to a walk, and he urged his own mount forward to move alongside her. Her eyes glinted at him as she glanced his way, and then, with one finger, she pointed. There, on the opposite edge of the rockfield, a gravelly path branched off and climbed sharply upward. A path up into the peaks.

She was silent. After several impatient breaths, Theoric muttered, "You said we would seek Sigunn up on the mountain. There lies the way."

A low chuckle, humorless. "I said that for the Thunderer's benefit only, to give him a clear line of pursuit. Have you no head for strategy?"

Theoric's fists tightened on the reins. "What great strategy is this, if we allow him to reach Sigunn first?"

"He will not reach her at all. He will find something else to occupy his attention, here in this. . .sanctuary of stone."

Theoric's heart chilled. Slowly his eyes slid over the rounded tops of the boulders, hundreds of them, carried down from the steep slopes above on the backs of the winter avalanche and the summer storm. But he saw now that crouched among the rocks were other, blocky, mottled shapes; one of the shadowy forms shifted slightly, drawing his gaze, and starlight reflected, for an instant, in moist, black eyes.

He recoiled, spine stiffening, his lips pulling back from his teeth in disgust.

Her voice said, "We have no call to scale the mountain. We know the lady's destination. We need only get there first, and await her arrival."

He shook his head angrily. "No. I wish to seek Sigunn out, and take her from him."

"Do you? Up the path you go, then. For of course the black prince will surrender her to you. He's nothing, after all; weren't those your words? Surely you will overcome him easily."

She spurred her horse forward, the clatter of hooves echoing sharply among the looming stones.

Theoric hesitated; his eyes traced the black silhouette of the mountain's peak. Then, with a sharp, vicious oath, he flicked the reins against his mount's neck, and followed the receding hoofbeats down the South Road.

* * *

When a faint gray line of dawn appeared along the treetops, Thor ordered the horses saddled, all but two. Then he motioned one of the palace guards to his side.

"Someone will need to stay with him," he said, gesturing with one hand toward the huddled figure of the guard who had been struck down. He was lying, twisted with fever and pain, on a pallet beside the fire.

The guard nodded, his eyes bleak. "It goes ill with him, my lord."

"Aye. And if the worst happens, you will need to build a pyre."

The man's eyes lowered, and he swallowed. Thor put a hand on his shoulder, and when the guard's eyes returned to his face, he asked, gently, "Are you equal to these tasks?"

"Yes, my lord." The guard touched his fist to his chest.

"Good. We will leave you the bulk of our supplies." He looked over to the remaining guards, who straightened to attention. "You two will come with me."

Fandral glanced up, from where he'd been tightening his horse's girth, and watched as the guard went to crouch by his fellow's bedside.

"So he will stay and we will go. And where are we going, exactly?"

"It's no mystery. Sif and Theoric will be seeking a way up the mountain, to the place where we saw the Fire burning, last night."

"Ah, yes. Where Loki and Lady Sigunn will be patiently waiting to receive guests."

Thor shook his head irritably. "Of course not. But it will give them a starting point, to launch their hunt."

"And we will just follow tamely along behind? And wait for the creature to take her life the moment he sees us in pursuit?"

Thor's eyes flashed. "No. No doubt they will expect that, but no. We will stay on the Road."

Fandral's eyes narrowed. "We will?"

"We will go to the estate of Lady Sigunn's father. That's where Loki and the lady are bound, and. . .we need Loki."

Fandral nodded slowly. "I see. Because he understands magic better than we."

"Yes. He can devise some scheme, some stratagem to free Sif from the creature. I'm certain of it."

Fandral slotted the girth's buckle into its sheath, and then looked over at Thor, his face sober. "Thor, may I ask? Why has Loki attached himself to her? To Lady Sigunn? Does he also want her Fire?"

Thor glared at him. "Of course not. Why would he?"

Fandral shrugged, pursing his lips. "No reason, perhaps, except that she bears a very great magic."

_A very great magic. . . And why would Loki be drawn toward that kind of power?_

Thor's chest tightened, as his treacherous mind provided him with a reason.

No, it couldn't be. Surely Loki had been paying heed to Lady Sigunn before he had discovered what she was. Hadn't he? His regard for her was not motivated by self-interest. . .

_No. I saw the way he looked at her. His voice when he addressed her. . ._

He pushed the cold suspicion aside, but it hovered on the horizon of his thoughts, a chilly shadow.

Fandral was watching him, brows raised. Thor frowned, his throat suddenly choked.

"I cannot read my brother's thoughts." He growled. "I cannot fathom his motivations. Why does he do anything? Why did he seek to subjugate Midgard? Why did he seek to end me?" He paused, his mind wholly taken up in the memory of Loki's face as Thor had fallen away, trapped in the mortals' clever glass cage. Loki's mocking, cold face. He shook the vision away, and spoke more softly, "If . . .if indeed he did truly intend to end me."

_For Loki must have known I would find a way to survive that fall. Surely he must have known that._

Fandral's brow was creased with concern. He said slowly, "I don't know, Thor."

Thor looked over at him. "That is past, and this is now. And now I do not look for only evil from Loki!" He paused, and spread his hands. "For all that I have seen, I think he travels with the lady solely out of concern for her wellbeing."

Fandral shrugged. "All right then. I suppose love finds its way to every man, at one time or another."

Thor turned away, toward his own horse. Over his shoulder, he said, "Or, in your case, five or six times before every new moon."

Fandral grinned. "Well, my friend, there's love, and then there's love, if you take my meaning."

"I do."

Fandral vaulted up into his saddle and then paused, leaning over the pommel. "Did I ever tell you about that maiden. . ."

Thor said flatly, "Yes."

"I didn't specify which one." Fandral contrived to look hurt.

"It doesn't matter. You've told me."

Thor swung astride his horse, and paused to wait for the remaining two guards to mount as well.

Fandral's mouth slanted into a dry smile as he watched them. "Our ranks are thinning."

Thor's jaw flexed angrily. "I fear they will be thinner still before we've finished this business."

He kicked his horse into a gallop, and in a cascade of hoofbeats they left the clearing behind, faces toward the tall mountain looming on the far side of the canyon.

The lone guard stood, looking after them. When the noise of their leave-taking had died away, he returned to his wounded fellow's side, and took up his lonely vigil.

* * *

Loki tilted his head back, seeking a glimpse of the sky through the thick branches that arched overhead like the vault of a wood-elf's palace. Cool green light filtered down, but the sky remained hidden, and his brow lowered. The thunder they had heard in the night echoed faintly through his thoughts.

They'd come far down the mountain, traveling through the darkness into gray dawn and now green daylight. The path had broadened, finally, enough that they could ride abreast, but though Sigunn had smiled at him when he'd urged Hrafn forward to her side, she was silent, her face set and still. He lowered his gaze to her now, to find her staring down into her own open palm, and he knew she was bracing herself for battle.

Quietly, he asked, "Have you wielded the fire, before?"

She closed her hand, and looked over at him. "Yes. Twice. That I remember."

"Why wouldn't you remember?"

"Well, I fear. . .no, I am quite certain, that there were several incidents, when I was a very young child. Until I grew strong enough to truly bear the fire."

Loki frowned, his thoughts arrested. After a moment, he said, "That's why you don't know your sisters. You were kept away from them."

She studied his face, warmed by his perception. "Yes." A pause. Then she continued softly, "I had my own house, on the estate. With my own servants."

"And you never saw your family?"

"My grandmother. She came to dine with me, at noonmeal, every day." She looked down. "Until she died. And I was sent for, to join the family, whenever there was a Feast, and guests were expected."

Loki said coldly, "How convivial."

She smiled. "We had guests quite often, really. I almost always had something to look forward to. Even if the guests were only our neighbors."

"The Halfdanir. I'm sure they visited with wearying regularity."

She slanted a brow at him. "Oh, yes. But not to see me, despite the pledge." Her face sobered. "My father and Theoric's seemed to always have reason for close conversation, and, as for Theoric. . ."

Loki raised a brow in return.

"As I told you, once, he never evinced the slightest interest in me. It was my sisters he preferred, to laugh and dance with them."

Loki frowned. "As if he feared you."

"I didn't see it that way then. But you may be right. After all, the Halfdanir had good cause to fear me. . ."

Her voice faded, and he could see the marks of painful memory imprinting themselves in her face, in the tension in her neck and her lowered eyes. He reached across and touched her arm.

She looked up, and smiled, a little sadly, and said, "You asked me just now if I had wielded the fire, and I said I had, but 'wielded' is too masterful a term. It implies control."

Loki slowly glanced back over his shoulder, at the peak behind them, where she had exhibited exquisite control.

"Yes," she sighed. "But I am older now. I have borne the fire for many years." She looked at him, her eyes quizzical. "Did you not set your magic free, sometimes, when you were very young?"

Loki felt a laugh rise up in his throat, unbidden. "Oh, yes."

"But someone instructed you, in how to control it?"

He nodded, the laughter draining away. "My mother. She taught me well."

A hundred individual memories flew at him, stumbling over themselves in their haste to replay their vivid pictures before his mind's eye. With cold calculation, he slammed the door firmly in their faces, and centered his attention back on Sigunn.

"There was no one to teach me," she said. "My mother, my grandmother, hers. . .none of them bore the fire."

"I suspect then that your particular gifts must have come as a shocking surprise."

"An unwelcome one, I think."

"The more fools they, in believing so."

She looked over at him, her eyes uncertain. Then, slowly at first, her voice carefully even, she spoke a tale.

"There was a Feasting, once. I was a girl, still, in the last vestiges of childhood. The Halfdanir were to join us, and they were late, as they often were, so the dining was delayed, far into the night, and then Gyrd Bragasson and my father were long in conversation, and the Feast dragged on and on. At first, I wished to dance, but. . .there were few partners for me, and so I left the Hall, and went into the stables, to visit with the horses, and tell them of my day, a childish custom of mine.

"I fell asleep, in the hay of the stallion's stall, until morning. For my next memory is of weak light spilling in through the windows, and a terrible sound: a horse screaming, and the slash and hum of a whip falling. I leaped up, and stumbled out of the stall. And there was Gryd Bragasson. He was beating a horse; it must have refused the bridle, and it was screaming and plunging. . ."

Loki's mouth thinned, and she nodded.

"I was angry. I remember, Loki. I could feel the rage boiling up like molten rock. I shouted for him to stop, and he turned on me, and commanded me to be still, and raised the lash again. . .and I recall nothing more. Just heat, and blackness.

When I came to myself I was being carried, by a servant. I smelled smoke, and I could see the red flames leaping into the sky over his shoulder. Men were shouting and horses whinnying. . .

I pushed myself away; the servant dropped me. I fell to my hands and knees, and looked up, and the stable was completely engulfed in flame."

Silence for a moment. Loki's eyes were warm on her face, but she felt only the cold horror of the memory.

"Sigunn. . ."

She looked away. "Four horses died. Three servants were severely burned, though they lived. And Gyrd Bragasson's hand was crushed by a falling beam."

A sudden image of that deformed hand flashed through Loki's mind. He said slowly, "And so the House of Halfdan learned of the battlefire."

She nodded, and bent her head, regarding her quiet hands.

"But that ruined hand is not the debt your father owes?"

"Oh, no. My father gave huge portions of our estate to the Halfdanir, as wergild for the hand. That debt is paid. In full."

"And they insisted on the pledge continuing. They want the fire. Why do they want it? What possible use can they make of it?"

"I don't know. I wish I did."

She tipped back her head to peer up into the treetops, expelling a long, slow breath. Then she looked over at Loki and smiled, the shadow slipping from her eyes. "In any case, the sorrows of the past should live only in the past. They shouldn't build fortresses in the present."

Loki's face hardened for a moment, but then his eyes lightened and he nodded, and said, "No. No, they should not."

 

* * *

 

They had almost reached the mountain's foot, the pathway narrowing once more, when a break in the shingled roof of branches overhead disclosed the sky filling with swirling clouds, moving unnaturally fast. Loki frowned, and pointed upward. Following his gesture, Sigunn saw a bolt of lighting arc from cloud to cloud, and a distant rumble of thunder rippled through the trees.

"Prince Thor?" she asked.

Loki smiled tightly. "His first line of attack, with trolls, is always the storm."

They could see the green light shading into gold, the way ahead opening up, as the path left the shelter of the trees. Loki pulled Hrafn to a stop, and swung quickly out of the saddle, dropping the reins.

"Let's leave them here," he said.

"But not tether them?" Sigunn leaped down from Bruni's back, her hand on his withers.

"They must be free to flee. If that should become necessary."

Sigunn nodded, swallowing her sudden fear; she let Bruni's reins fall as well. The stallion nosed her shoulder.

Loki touched Hrafn's bridle; looking sternly into the stallion's eye, he said, his voice pitched low, "Stay here. We'll return."

Hrafn's head bobbed, and then lowered to begin cropping the short, spare grass growing on the lee side of the trees.

They followed the path on foot, around several curves and strait-ways, until it dropped out of the trees, winding among huge blocks of stone. Over their tops, Loki could see into the dell below, filled with fallen boulders.

And trolls.

And Thor.

With a slow, smooth movement that wouldn't draw the eye, Loki slid behind a giant cube of rock, just tall enough to hide them, and studied the outlook with hooded eyes.

Beside him, Sigunn said, voice barely audible, "Is it an interesting view?"

"Not at all. Nothing about this scene surprises me in the slightest." He grinned down at her. "Forgive me, Lady. You're so tall in spirit that I often forget that you're also small in stature."

He bent his leg, braced his thigh against the rock, and held out his hand. "See for yourself."

She smiled. "Is it fitting to use a prince of Asgard as a footstool?"

"What do I live for but to serve?"

She laughed softly, and took his hand, stepping up onto his leg, moving her hand to his shoulder to brace herself, and cautiously peering over the boulder's sloping top. His arm slid close around her waist to hold her.

In the open field below, she saw a great army of trolls, encircling Prince Thor and the swordsman Fandral and two palace guards, all of them still mounted though the horses were shifting and prancing in fear. The trolls were shifting, too, from side to side, their eyes all fixed on their leader, who stood, legs spread wide, a battle-scarred axe gripped in both hands, eyes narrowed malevolently. Thor was already raising the Hammer.

She looked down at Loki, taut lines of worry at the corners of her eyes.

"Why haven't they attacked?" she whispered.

He straightened his leg, and allowed her body to slide down his, back to her feet. But he kept his arm around her, pressing her close.

"They know him, and they fear him, despite the overwhelming odds. They know he will call down the storm, and smite them with the Hammer." After a pause, he added, "Sif and your lover Theoric seem to be missing."

Sigunn frowned. "That's true."

The rolling waves of the troll's muttering, groaning battle taunts grew louder. Loki said, "Despite their caution, they will nerve themselves for the attack. And though no doubt he would disagree, they are too many for Thor to overcome. We have only a few minutes."

Sigunn nodded. She squared her shoulders, pulling away from him slightly; she opened one of her hands and looked down into the palm, her face hardening into a stony determination that belied the liquid pain pooling in her eyes.

Loki reached out a hand and cupped her face. "I think I know a way to spare you that."

She looked up, startled.

"If you are willing to play a certain part."

She nodded. "Of course."

"It's a risky venture." He eyed her speculatively, a small smile curving one corner of his lips.

"Well. . .perhaps you are not alone in your fondness for them. What would you have me do?"

"WIll you unbind your hair?"

She pulled the long plait over her shoulder, and removed the metal ring that secured it. He watched her separate the tresses with quick fingers, his eyes dancing now with the glee that truly inspired mischief always sparked in him. When she had finished, and shook her hair back, she raised a brow. "And?"

Leaning forward, he said, "Now, look fierce."

"Don't I always?" She drew herself up to full height. The top of her head might have grazed Loki's chin. Barely.

His smile widened; a warm light flaring in his eyes. "Do you know? I believe you do."

As she opened her mouth to respond, he bent forward and kissed her, a swift, ardent, open-mouthed kiss. For a moment, her lips were still with surprise, but almost at once he felt her give herself completely to it, her arms slipping around him, her lips parting beneath his.

That one moment only, of the sweet weight of her body against his and her heated kiss, and then Loki lifted his head, and tilted it to one side, eyes glowing. She looked up at him and said, a trifle breathlessly, both brows raised, "And  _this_  is the right place and time?"

"No. Not at all."

And then, despite the rising clamor of the trolls, and the fearful prospect of facing them, Sigunn laughed. For who would bestow such a kiss at such a time, in the instant before battle? Who looks to the menace on the horizon, and throws his arm wide in welcome? Who runs lightly along the edge of the precipice, laughing at the danger of the fall?

Loki. Lord of Mischief.

She saw him, walking the fine line between chaos and control, and she wanted to join him there and dance through that borderland with him.

"The Asgardians are such fools," she said.

He lifted his chin, puzzlement creasing his brow. "Are they?"

She smiled. "They do not see you for what you are."

A slow answering smile replaced the frown. "Is this admiration, still? At such a moment?"

"Especially at such a moment."

The trolls were screeching now, and stamping their feet until the ground shook. Over the roar, Thor's voice could be heard, shouting a challenge.

Loki released her. He stepped back and held out one hand, eyes alight. "Come then, my lady. Let's go and frolic with the trolls."

* * *

Thor bellowed, "Give us passage, or I will call down the storm."

He had thrust the Hammer far over his head, and the clouds above were already boiling in agitation. The trolls stomped in response, moaning and hooting, though their eyes shifted nervously toward the sky, giving lie to their belligerence. The battle-chief raised a fist, and shook it at Thor.

"Do your worst, Thunderer! There are many of us here, even if you should strike us down by the dozen."

At that moment, a high, keening wail wafted over the heads of the grimacing trolls, coiling itself around the battle-chief. His eyes left Thor, and turned of their own volition toward the sound.

A troll came stumbling into the rockfield, its carapace gashed and scored, oozing black blood. Its face and hands were covered with raw, red burns and weeping blisters, and its loincloth was singed and blackened. It could not walk properly, and so it hunched forward, dragging one leg and crutching itself along on the knuckles of one hand, the arm muscles bunching painfully.

The trolls' war cries died away, slowly, as the wounded troll made its way toward the battle-chief. The silence stretched and thickened until the troll's ragged breathing could be clearly heard. As it neared, Thor could see the unfiltered panic clouding its eyes.

"Flee!" it cried, as it reached the chief's side. It clawed at the leader's arms, fingers scrabbling against the rocky hide. "We must all flee!"

"What? Unhand me!" The chief shouted, his voice rising with each word.

"Did you not see the fire, the terrible fire, on the mountain last night?" The troll's voice was almost babbling.

All the trolls within earshot began to murmur and back away. They had seen it, every one of them.

"What of it?"

"A fire nymph! A goddess. . .or a demon! She destroyed us all. She burned us without mercy!"

Thor's brow lowered. He leaned forward, staring at the wounded troll.

The battle-chief growled. "The band sent up the mountain is defeated?"

The wounded troll stared over its shoulder, unseeing, eyes hollow. "Defeated?" Its voice rose hysterically. "They were utterly destroyed! Burned! Every one! There was no escaping her!"

"Who? Escaping who, you fool?!"

And then a movement on the edge of the rockfield caught Thor's eye, and the battle-chief's as well: a small woman, wrapped in a tattered white cloak, her fiery hair drifting in a wind that none of them could perceive.

A soft oath left Thor's lips before he could stifle it, and from the corner of his eye he saw Fandral's body stiffen. The battle-chief's eyes widened, and the wounded troll, seeing this, whirled stiffly about.

It screamed.

The trolls began to back away from the woman. Their eyes were locked on her, and when she lifted her hands toward them they began to mutter and moan. Only Thor kept his eyes on the wounded troll, and noticed the troll's fingers moving in a curious, subtle pattern.

From both of the woman's upraised hands, a blossom of fire arose, beautiful, delicate flames, burning a hot white and gold. In another moment, her whole body was encompassed in blazing fire.

The trolls stumbled backward, desperate to be away from her. The wounded troll was moaning, and now it shouted, its voice edged with all-consuming terror, "Flee her!"

The trolls broke, and began to run, all of them: shoving their fellows aside, trampling underfoot any who stumbled. The battle-chief roared in fury, but they ran, heedless of his threats and curses. They scrambled for their lives, streaming away from the rockfield and into the trees, fleeing the burning woman.

For a moment more, the battle-chief held his ground. The woman turned to him, and took a step forward, and her eyes glowed, suddenly, flaring white. Then he shoved the wounded troll away, and leapt over its body as it fell, and loped off in the midst of the wailing, shambling host.

Thor's eyes were locked on the wounded troll, as it climbed awkwardly to its feet. As the last of the trolls disappeared under the trees, it turned to regard the lady, and its lips stretched into a smile. It lifted one hand and twisted it in a movement far more graceful than Thor had ever seen from any troll. The lady's figure blurred momentarily, and the flames vanished. She looked down at her hands, and then ran lightly forward toward them.

Thor dismounted his horse with a leap. "Lady Sigunn," he said. And then he studied her for a moment, and slowly inclined his head. "Victory-Bringer."

She halted, her brow furrowed in surprise as that name fell from his lips, and said, "Prince Thor."

Then he turned to the troll, and said, "Loki?"

Behind him, he heard Fandral's exclamation of surprise.

The troll's form shimmered, encased for an instant in a golden glow, which, when it dissipated, revealed his brother. He turned to Thor, his face cold. "Victory-Bringer?"

Thor's eyes held his. "I read your book."

An indefinable expression crossed Loki's face, fleeting and inscrutable.

Fandral spoke, then, from his horse's back. "Well-met, and fair morning, and what have you, but perhaps we should take this joyous reunion elsewhere? The trolls may return."

The two guards looked nervously over their shoulders; Thor chuckled, low in his throat. "Not likely. I've never seen trolls move so quickly." He lifted his hand to Loki's shoulder, and said, "Thank you for that, brother. It was cleverly done." He looked over at Sigunn. "And you, Lady."

Sigunn smiled. Loki nodded, once, his face expressionless.

Thor's hand dropped away. He said, "Do you have horses?"

"We left them back in the trees."

"Let's fetch them then."

"For what purpose?" Loki asked, his voice low and hard.

Thor frowned. "To leave this place, of course."

"Together? And go where? Where are Sif and Theoric, Thor?"

Thor's face tightened. "Walk with me, Loki. I have a tale to tell, about that."

Loki hesitated. He glanced over at Sigunn, as she came to stand beside him, and said, finally, "Tell it now then."

Thor's eyes narrowed angrily, but, turning to his horse, he flipped open the saddle bag and retrieved another book. He opened it, to a certain spot, and handed it to Loki, who took it without looking at it.

After a long moment, Thor said, "Knowledge arms the warrior."

For an instant, Loki was utterly still, his eyes searching Thor's face. Slowly he said, "Yes, it does." And he looked down at the book.

Thor turned to Sigunn. "My lady, are you well?"

"Yes, of course." She had watched the exchange between them with a growing frown between her brows, and now she said, "What is this all about, my lord?" She gestured toward the book.

"The gray shadow," Thor said.

"An  _eldjotun_?" Loki murmured. He looked up at Thor, shaking his head, pointing down into the book with one long finger. "What is this?"

Thor's face was stern. "Not just an  _eldjotun_. A prince among his kind, and so more powerful by an order of ten than any ordinary fire giant."

Loki was reading again, his eyes skimming down the page. "But the eldjotnar are not formless, or shadowy. They are flesh."

"Read further. This  _jotun_ has disembodied himself, using dwarven magic, so that he can hide from Odin's Sight, and work his purposes unseen."

"And what are his purposes?"

"I know not. Or, at least, I know only his current goal."

"And that is?"

Thor looked reluctantly at Sigunn. "I've seen this creature. Even in this shadowy form, he's very powerful, and he becomes all the more so when he. . ."

He hesitated, studying her face, and finished, ". . .when he imbibes fire."

Sigunn frowned, leaning forward. "Fire?"

Loki snapped the book shut, his whole body cold and tense. "Fire." He turned to Sigunn. "The damned House of Halfdan wants to hand you over to a fire giant."

Sigunn's face paled in horror. "But Theoric. . .knows me. How could he do such a thing?"

Thor lifted a hand and gripped her shoulder, his voice compassionate. "He is in league with the  _eldjotun_ , Lady. I'm sorry, but there can be no denying it."

Loki's face was icy, and his eyes blazed with green fire. "Hel take him."

Sigunn backed away, shaking away Thor's hand. ''But. . .what is known to Theoric is known to his father. And what is known to Gyrd Bragasson is . . .known to  _my_  father."

Loki stepped toward her, reaching out a hand. "You cannot be certain of that."

Her eyes turned to him, swimming with pain. "I have always known that there was some strange alliance between them. And this talk of debts. . ."

Loki wheeled to Thor. "Where is the  _eldjotun_  now? With Sif and Theoric? Where are they?"

Thor's eyes glinted with sudden pain. "I don't know! But he is in Sif, within her body. And he has threatened to kill her if we pursue. And sworn to kill you, Loki."

"Well, that certainly explains a great deal."

"We must find a way to free her."

Sigunn said suddenly, "We should go to my father. His lands are not far now; we can reach them by sundown."

Thor looked skeptical.

"No, Prince Thor, hear me. My father might know. . . . I am certain that if the House of Halfdan is in league with a fire giant, my father will know of it. And he might know . . .how it could be attacked. Its weaknesses. Let us go to him, and persuade him to divulge his secrets. He may know a way to free her."

Loki said, his voice even and cold, "And he may know where they are to be found."

Thor wavered, his desire to pursue and conquer warring violently with the knowledge that his brother and the lady were right. Finally, voice strained, he said, "Let's go together."

Fandral had twisted in his saddle, scanning the far edge of the forest with worried eyes. "Yes," he said, "Let's go. Right now."

* * *

Vidar Agmundson planted his fists on the long, planked table, leaning onto them as he studied the charts spread before him. In the room's center, his steward stood silently, hands clasped behind his back as he awaited his master's approval, one foot surreptitiously attempting to smooth out a wrinkle in the worn carpet that covered the floor.

Vidar stretched out one long finger and tapped the center chart. "How is it that this field has produced so much less this season? Was it improperly prepared in the spring?"

The steward cleared his throat. "Well, my lord, that variant of grape was proven unreliable in other. . ."

His droning voice was cut off by scuttling entrance of Bergr, chief manservant to the House of Iwaldi. His usually-neat hair was ruffled by his own agitation, and he disordered it further by running a shaking hand through it.

Vidar stared at him. Bergr's imperturbable face was pale.

"What is it, man?" he snapped.

"My lord, there are. . .visitors at the gate."

Vidar frowned. "Well, bid them enter. Care for their needs."

"My lord, these are not the usual sort of. . ."

The door behind him, which had drifted closed, was suddenly flung wide. The doorframe was filled with two tall men, one fair, one dark, both possessed of faces so grimly filled with purpose that the steward gave a wordless exclamation and backed away, stumbling over the fold in the carpet.

Vidar straightened, his cold gaze sweeping their faces. . .he knew these men.

His eyes widened; his face slackened with astonishment. Carefully, he bent the neck. "My lords. . ."

But, his eye was caught, and his movement arrested, as the two stepped aside, and another entered the room. Her hair, unbound, flowed in a red wave over the shoulders of her torn, dirty cloak. Her boots were crusted with dried mud; her breeches were holed in one knee. Above her dark eyes, a barely-healed wound slanted along her hairline, surrounded by a blue, fading bruise.

Vidar's jaw dropped, and then snapped shut.

Sigunn walked forward, and stood before the table. She lifted one hand, and rested it on the hilt of the bronze dagger thrust through her belt, her fingers unconsciously tracing the graceful line of the horse's outstretched neck. She raised her chin and said, voice cool, "Good day, Father."

* * *


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The burden of the blood debt. . .

**_Storm's Eye_ **

**_Part 14/20_ **

_In the House of Iwaldi. . ._

"Sigunn?" Her father's eyes swept over her. "How is it that you are here? And with. . ."

His gaze drifted away, and without waiting for her to speak, he stared again at the men behind her, and his shoulders straightened.

"You are welcome to the House of Iwaldi, Princes."

The steward, who had backed all the way into the corner of the room, bowed almost double. The servant Bergr's hands worked nervously at his sides, his neck bent so sharply that his face was hidden and only the top of his head was visible.

Vidar twitched a glare at him and snapped, "Bergr, food and wine. At once."

"Of course, my lord," the man stammered, He bowed, deeply, in Thor's general direction and added an abrupt bob toward Loki. "My Lords."

And he scuttled out. Vidar looked over at the steward, hunched in the corner, and jerked his chin toward the door. With a frightened glance at the princes, he fled, the stiff length of his strides only just short of a run.

Vidar bent the neck once more, to Thor, and said, "My House is honored by your presence, sons of Odin." His eyes flickered toward Loki, and something that might have been fear glimmered in them.

Thor crossed his arms over his chest, inclining his head slightly in response to the greeting. But Loki lifted his chin, looking down at the man, eyes frosted with disdain under lowered lids. After a moment, he said, "Your House is more honored in its own seed. In the valor and courage of your eldest daughter."

Thor's eyes slid briefly to Loki, a spark of surprise flaring for an instant. But his brother's eyes remained fastened on Vidar's face, his expression hardening with each breath as Vidar continued to stare at Thor, the man's face clearly revealing his disbelief: the crown prince of the Realm was standing in his study; the sons of Odin were guests in his House! Loki shifted his weight, then, blatantly turning his shoulders so that his whole being was focused on the daughter rather than the father. After a moment, Thor, with another sidelong glance at his brother, did the same.

Reluctantly, Vidar returned his gaze to Sigunn. She hadn't moved.

"Are you well?" he asked awkwardly.

"I am, Father. Though there are those who would have it otherwise."

He smiled, a condescending grimace, shaking his head, "Who would wish it so?"

She drew in a long breath, studying him warily. "You, Father."

His face blanched. His eyes slid away from her once more, and in the silence that followed and grew as he groped for a response, Sigunn knew that her father had indeed sold her to destruction, a knowledge that rose up like a bitter tide, choking her throat and blinding her eyes.

Loki moved, one step forward, and said, voice low, "We will leave you to it, my lady."

For a moment, his eyes held hers, and she found in them an anchor against the rancid wave of grief threatening to unmoor her: a cold, towering rage risen up on her behalf. Her throat loosened; she could breathe once more. Loki's eyes lifted to catch Thor's gaze. Thor nodded, and spun on his heel toward the door.

"No, Loki." Sigunn's voice was soft, but both men turned at once, back to her. Vidar's eyes widened at the ease with which his daughter commanded the attention of the Princes of the Realm, and then narrowed, glittering suddenly with half-formed speculations.

Sigunn felt the heat of her own anger rising, and she welcomed it. "No, for what is to be said in this room concerns us all. Lady Sif is Prince Thor's dear friend, and you are. . ."

". . . _asta_. . ." her mind whispered.

". . .my friend, and I have no secrets from you. Stay and hear my father's words."

He searched her face, before nodding slowly and saying, "So be it." He glanced over at Thor, who nodded as well, and both of them sat, in two chairs on either end of the table.

Vidar shifted, his face working uneasily. "And what words would you hear from me? I am. . .amazed that you would think I wish you ill. That you would say such things in front of . . .these men."

Sigunn turned back to face him. "But that is always the way of it, with you, Father, is it not? Are you more concerned with this accusation I make, or the fact that I wound your pride by making it before the Princes of Asgard?"

"The accusation, of course, daughter. Mind your tongue." His voice sharpened.

Loki stirred, an aborted, angry movement. Sigunn's eyes flashed. "Then will you hear my accusation, and answer it, with the sons of Odin as witnesses?"

His eyes wavered. With visible effort, he softened his tone. "What need have we of witnesses? You are my daughter; I do not wish you ill."

"Then you can have no objection to answering me freely, whatever I may ask."

"As long as you ask as a daughter should. I will have no disrespect from you."

Sigunn leaned forward, her voice cold. "You have forfeited the right to my respect."

"In what way?"

"In selling me to the House of Halfdan."

He backed away, a step, raising both hands. "Wait a moment, girl! A pledge of marriage is not a bill of sale! Heed your words."

"It is indeed a bill of sale, if the purpose at hand is not wedded bliss but is instead the payment of some debt!"

He stiffened, his entire body frozen but for his eyes, which slid toward the tall windows that lined the eastern wall of the room. Thick silence blossomed.

Finally, he said, "What debt?" His fingers moved restlessly, creasing a fold in the rich cloth of his tunic and smoothing it out again, over and over.

"That you must teach me, Father, for I know nothing of it. But it must be a great debt indeed, to necessitate the death of your firstborn!"

He sat suddenly, in an armed chair pulled alongside the table. His gaze left her face, and studied the floor at his feet. Finally, he said, his voice strained, "I have not sold you into death. Only marriage. Only that."

"Truly? Do you truly not know the fate that the Halfdanir have marked out for me?"

She walked around the table, and crouched down, looking up into her father's face. "Truly, Father? Can it be that you did not know?"

He looked away from her, to Thor's stern face and then to Loki's icy, blazing eyes. Finding no solace in either place, finally, he looked again at the upturned face before him.

She sat back on her heels, her face bleak. "You did know. About the  _eldjotun_."

A spasm of startled chagrin twisted his lips, as she uttered that word, and then his shoulders slumped.

Silence. At last, he whispered, "Yes. Curses on him. Curses on them all."

Thor's voice rumbled, "You must tell us what you know of him."

Vidar slumped further into his chair, despair etching deep lines on either side of his mouth. "I know little. He is a fire giant. A _jotun_." As he spit out the final word, he looked up suddenly, at Loki, and his eyes glittered with mingled fear and disdain.

Loki shook his head. "That won't do. You have long been aware that your estimable neighbors were harboring a known enemy of Asgard, and yet you said nothing. Those are the actions of a traitor."

Raw fear blazed up in Vidar's eyes. "I am not traitor! I had no choice!"

"Prove your loyalty, then. Tell us all you know."

Thor growled, "Would he take shelter openly at the Halfdanir estate?"

Vidar sat, silently, and then, with a sigh, he said, "No doubt. But nothing that one does is open. He has disembodied himself, and always uses a human vessel, whom he enters and leaves by means of blood."

Thor and Loki exchanged a glance.

Loki murmured, "A bloodspell. Dwarven magic is often rooted in blood."

Sigunn met his eyes and said softly, "Flames and blood."

Thor said, "I have seen that wound. And that means that Sif will be injured, perhaps gravely, when we persuade him to abandon her."

Loki raised a brow at him. "'When'? Say rather 'if', Thor." To Vidar he said, voice clipped, "Is there a moment of weakness, or disorientation, when he leaves his human vessel?"

Vidar frowned, "Perhaps. A little." He spread his hands. "You must understand, Prince, that I have seen it happen only rarely."

Sigunn's face had grown pale. Suddenly she said, "He uses Theoric. . .He has long used Theoric. . .Father, are you saying that the  _eldjotun_  was present in Theoric whenever the Halfdanir visited us?"

He looked away. "Yes, daughter."

"Why?" It was a cry.

A silence. Finally he said, "I think perhaps you know the answer to that."

'And yet still you would honor the pledge made to them?"

"I must."

She stood, eyes filled with a dark pain that stood out starkly against her white face. "Why, Father? If you know that their intention for me will surely lead to my death."

He straightened, his eyes flaring with momentary anger. "I know no such thing!"

"Then tell me how else an Idisi woman may be separated from her fire?"

He shook his head, the fire draining away as quickly as it had sparked. He said, dully, "I know not. I know only that the debt must be paid."

The door swung open again, just then, and Bergr hurried in, bearing a tray of winecups, and a gilded flagon. His eyes skimmed hurriedly through the room, face paling as the heavy tension laid itself over his shoulders, and he scurried to a sideboard, filling cups from the flagon with such haste that rich purple wine splashed out and pooled on the tray. His face tight, he proffered the tray first to Thor, who took a cup and raised it to expressionless lips, and then to Loki. The tray shook in his hands; the cups rattled faintly. Thor slanted a dark glance at him from under lowered brows; Loki reached for a cup without taking his eyes from Sigunn.

Rounding the table, Bergr approached his master, who looked up as if seeing him for the first time. "That will do, man," he said, voice tired.

Bergr hesitated, his eyes sliding to Sigunn. Very slightly he raised the tray, but she shook her head.

Without another sound he fled the room, his eagerness to be gone evident in the hunched posture of his back.

As the door swung silently closed, Sigunn said, "What debt, Father?"

He stirred in the chair, looking past her to the windows. Thor swallowed another mouthful of the wine, his eyes flickering toward Loki.

Slowly, she repeated, "What debt?"

Finally, with a sigh, and with the slow, cramped movements of a much older man, Vidar stood. Still without looking at Sigunn, he walked to the window, and reached down, and grasped the window's broad sill. There was an anguished creak, the protest of old, stiff wood, as he lifted the sill, revealing a shallow cavity underneath, filled with rolls of parchment, and several small leather bags secured at their necks with tightly knotted thongs.

Slowly he withdrew one of the rolls, a thick sheaf of raggedly-trimmed sheets, and slid his thumb under the crumbling wax wafer that sealed it shut. He stood, head bowed, his chest rising and falling in one long breath, and then he came back to the table, and handed it to Sigunn.

She reached out, fingers trembling, and unrolled it, bending to smooth the sheets unto the table's hard surface. She looked over at Loki, who nodded, his eyes intent on her face. Vidar returned to his chair and slowly sat, and, after a moment, buried his face in his hands.

"Read it," he said tonelessly. "Read it aloud before the sons of Odin."

"What is it?"

"It is the account of the debt, written by Iwaldi's younger son."

She lifted the first sheet, and began to read.

 _"In the days of war, between the fire giants of Muspelheim and the valiant warriors of Asgard, many Houses of great repute fell into ruin_. . ."

"The Muspelheim Wars," Thor sat forward, brows raised. "That was long ages ago. Before the reign of my father. Before he closed the portals between Muspelheim and Asgard."

"Yes," Vidar said, raising his head to nod toward Thor, "this is an old story."

Loki's said, quietly, "Read on, Sigunn."

_"Many houses of great repute fell into ruin, but there were also Houses rewarded with nobility for their loyalty and service to Asgard, and two of these were the House of Halfdan and the House of Iwaldi. For the battles raged fierce in the ancestral lands of these two Houses, and many flocked to fight under their banners."_

"There was a portal there, a direct pathway between Muspelheim and Asgard." Vidar pointed through the window, toward the mountainside that loomed close across a narrow valley. "Whole armies of  _eldjotnar_  used it as a passageway. Many battles were fought in this valley, during those wars."

_"In the height of the wars, when the eldjotnar again invaded their lands, seeking to subjugate all of the Southern Marches, Iwaldi called upon Halfdan to join him in battle and repel them. But Halfdan had grown rich in years and weary of war, and so he sent instead his only son and heir, Gunnar Halfdanson, to fight in his place. But he loved his son dearly, and thus, as the warriors mounted to ride and meet the foe, he took close counsel with Iwaldi and prevailed upon him to swear a blood oath, that he would fight as a brother side by side with Gunnar, and protect him from harm with his own life, should it become necessary. And Iwaldi swore this oath."_

Sigunn looked up, her eyes stricken. "Why would Iwaldi do such a thing? A blood oath?"

Vidar shrugged. "Pride? Unshaken belief in his own valor? Who can say, from a vantage in time so far away? All that matters is that he did swear it, upon himself." He looked away, a muscle tightening in his cheek. "And upon his whole House."

_"But it came to pass, that in the heat of battle, when pressed hard by no less than a prince among the fire giants. . ."_

Sigunn paused, looking up to see Thor and Loki exchanging a grim look.

"Surely it cannot be the same one!" she exclaimed.

Her father said, "They are a long-lived people, the  _jotuns_." His eye slanted toward Loki again, for a moment.

_". . .that Iwaldi, in an act of great cowardice, thrust the lad Gunnar forward to take the brunt of the eldjotun's wrath, and fled himself to safety, abandoning the son of Halfdan to certain death."_

Sigunn's voice faded. Thor grunted, deep in his throat, the pained response of a warrior to battlefield treachery. Vidar's hand pressed hard against his brow, the knuckles whitening. Loki said savagely, "He broke the oath."

Vidar was silent.

After a moment, Sigunn swallowed and lifted the parchment again.

_"But Gunnar fought with a will of iron and the spirit of his fathers, and, though mortally wounded, escaped the fire giant's dreadful grip. He stumbled through the battlefield, the blackness of death pursuing him, until he found the men of Halfdan locked in battle with the enemy. In horror they left the fray and brought him to his father, still alive, but only just._

_Great was Halfdan's despair and sorrow, a hot grief converted into soaring wrath when his son regained his wits only long enough to tell his father of Iwaldi's treachery in battle. Gunnar Halfdanson died in great pain, and grievous suffering._

_Cold then was Halfdan's fury, colder than midwinter's fiercest blast, and colder still his desire for vengeance upon the House of Iwaldi. And he took it into his heart to commit an act of great evil._

_For he returned to the battlefield where his son had fallen, and called truce upon the fire giants who had returned in the night to gather their dead, and demanded to hold counsel with their leader._

_A fearful bargain was struck, between the ghastly prince of the fire giants and Halfdan the Grieved. For the eldjotnar's power would compel a heavy wergild to be paid out of the estate of Iwaldi into the lands of the Halfdanir, through every generation to come. Every generation of the Iwaldir will pay, or face the jotun's wrath, and so the House of Halfdan will grow evermore in wealth and power. And greater still. . ."_

Sigunn's voice faltered. She let the sheet of parchment fall and stood with head bowed. After a moment, she picked it up again, and handed it across to Loki, wordlessly.

Slowly he read aloud.

_". . .greater still, in payment for the eldjotun's aid, the House of Halfdan demands of the House of Iwaldi one of their own, an Idisi girl-child, when one shall be born in the generations to come that bears the battlefire of the Idir._

_So shall the House of Halfdan beggar the Iwaldir, and so shall the eldjotun be satisfied._

_Thus I have written it. Thus it has been. Thus it shall be."_

Sigunn raised her eyes, ablaze with furious pain. "The fire in the stable. . .the guilt I have always felt. It matters not! The Halfdanir have always known about the battlefire!"

"Yes."

"And you have always known! This is why the House of Iwaldi has been so careful to preserve the line of the Idisi mothers-so that one day the shameful debt could finally be paid in full!"

Her father looked at her. "You have been lost to us since the day you were born. Since the moment we saw the battlefire burning in your infant eyes."

Hands shaking, Sigunn lifted the final sheet that lay on the table, a thick, deeply-inscribed document: a pledge of marriage alliance between two Houses. There, printed with a dark red fluid that could only be blood, was the mark of a childish hand. Theoric. And next to it, the tiny handprint of a newborn infant, with the name in runes beneath it: Sigunn Vidardottir.

"How could you?" she whispered.

Vidar's eyes blazed. "It is a blood-debt! It must be paid!"

"Some debts are not meant to be paid!"

"The family's honor. . ."

"And what of your greater oath, Father? Did not the House of Iwaldi swear to protect the Idisi mothers? And am I not the last of their seed? What of that? Where is the honor in that?"

He turned away, his shoulders bowed. "Idir or no, the blood-debt must be paid."

"I am your daughter!"

"You are the payment." He put his hands to his head, his whole body doubling over. "Hel take us all, you are the payment!"

A thunderous silence fell. Thor and Loki were both on their feet.

Finally, Sigunn whispered, "No."

There was no answer but her father's harsh, broken breathing.

"No," her voice strengthened. "I will not be the sacrifice to Iwaldi's foolish pride and dreadful cowardice."

She picked up the pledge. Slowly she held out the heavy sheet with a hand that no longer shook. Unwillingly, as if a power outside of himself compelled it, her father's hand lifted and took it from her.

"Break it, Father." Her voice vibrated with fury. "Break the pledge and free me from the House of Halfdan."

He seemed frozen, his eyes staring down at the document as if all the universe had shrunk to that one square of parchment.

She lifted one hand and placed it over his, and with the other she cupped her father's chin and raised his head so that his eyes were forced to meet hers.

"Break it," she said. "Honor the House's oath to the Idisi mothers, and spurn the cursed Halfdanir! Show the courage that all of your fathers did not."

With a painful, rasping gasp, Vidar grasped the ancient parchment in his two fists, and then, lips pulled back in a grimace of fear and pain, he slowly ripped it in two.

He let the pieces fall.

Sigunn stepped back, her hand to her breast, her eyes fixed, for a long moment, on the fallen halves of the pledge. Then, swiftly she stooped and picked them up. She rolled them tightly, and thrust them into her belt alongside the horsehead dagger. Her eyes sought Loki, swirling with a strange mixture of cold rage and warm exultation.

Vidar sat, gazing sightlessly into the middle distance, eyes hollow. "My name is lost. My honor is lost. The  _eldjotun_  prince will destroy me. And how shall I answer the House of Halfdan?" His eyes focused on Sigunn. "They will never agree to release you."

Sigunn's face tightened. "Your name is your own, Father. And as for the Halfdanir, leave them to me." She looked over at Thor, and then back to Loki. "To us."

Thor growled, "They will answer to the House of Odin."

Vidar's head swiveled toward him, his eyes dull with fear. "And why should the House of Odin speak for the House of Iwaldi?"

Thor looked over at Loki, whose eyes were locked on Sigunn, a fierce light glowing in their depths.

Thor said, slowly, "We have our reasons. . ."

"And the fire giant?"

"That's one of our reasons."

Just then, the door swung open once more, revealing Bergr hovering nervously on the threshhold.

"My lord," he said, clearing his throat, "There is food prepared, and hot baths, and guest chambers. . ."

Vidar stood. Slowly, he said, "Will you be my guests, princes? Or will you ride at once into battle?"

Loki tilted his head toward the windows, where the deepening purple of dusk had veiled the mountains from sight.

Thor's brow lowered. "We will not be so foolish as to attack him at night, when the advantage is his. We will stay here this night, and in the morning we will pay a visit to the House of Halfdan, and see if perhaps they are playing host to a fire giant."

* * *

Loki sat elegantly sprawled across a low chair in the antechamber of the estate's bath-house, a crackling fire throwing its shifting light over the somber angles of his face. His hair lay black and wet along his shoulders. He'd conjured himself another new tunic and breeches, pointedly ignoring the selection of thick woolen robes and soft furs piled thoughtfully for guests in an open chest beside the door. He wanted no gifts from the House of Iwaldi.

In the bath-house proper, beyond an arched door, he could hear the mumbled words and carelessly-hummed tune of an old, old drinking song, as well as the occasional splash: Fandral. There was a sudden squelching thud, a cake of soap hitting the floor, and a muttered oath. Loki's mouth twitched, and he lifted two fingers, flicking them abruptly sideways. The slippery whisper of soap sliding unevenly across the floor; Fandral's oaths grew proportionately louder. There were some damp, splashing footsteps.

The corners of Loki's eyes wrinkled as his mouth stretched into a smile, but the jest held his attention for only a moment. His face smoothed again, and he stared into the fire, his eyes dark pools of thought.

The chamber door flung wide, letting in a gust of cold night air that set the fire to frantic dancing. Thor strode in, carefully balancing three brimming bowls on a tray in one hand, and three large tankards gripped in the other fist. He'd re-donned his armor, and tied his hair back into an impatiently-gathered tail. Loki glanced at him, briefly, face expressionless, and then resumed his contemplation of the fire. The odors of lamb stew and mead mingled with the faint woody tinge of smoke.

With a metallic ring, Thor lowered the tankards to a table in the corner, and then, after a slightly-doubtful consideration of Loki's face, picked up two of the bowls and approached the fire. He offered Loki one of the bowls.

When Loki shook his head, Thor said, after a moment, "Surely you are hungry."

Loki said grimly, "I have no stomach for any largesse from the House of Iwaldi."

"Not even food?"

Silence. Loki looked into the fire and murmured, "There is only one thing I want from this House."

"Ah. Yes."

After a moment, Thor balanced the bowls on the arm of Loki's chair and then crouched down, lifting a poker from the gilded rack beside the firepit and thrusting it at random into the fire, lifting one log and letting it fall again, releasing a spiraling column of sparks.

"You must put aside those sentiments," he said, slotting a sidelong glance at Loki and intercepting an ironic grimace in return. "We face a great battle tomorrow, and we must press every advantage we can. Build our strength where we can."

He dropped the poker and picked up his own bowl, lifting the spoon toward his lips.

"What a pity," Loki said, "that I have so few advantages to press."

Silence, a thick, uneasy silence this time. Finally, Thor said, "We must form some sort of plan. We cannot simply ride up to the door and announce ourselves."

Loki said, "The first task is to persuade the  _eldjotun_  to release Lady Sif."

Thor nodded, his eyes sliding from the fire to his brother's face.

"And I fear it will take a great deal of persuasion."

Thor chewed, swallowed. "You will think of a way, Loki. You always do."

"Your confidence in me is touching," Loki's voice was cold. "But I wonder if you have considered the true disadvantage in which we find ourselves."

Thor took another bite. "We've often been in such situations."

"Not like this."

"Why is this any different? What about that time in. . ."

"Because I am chained, Thor!" Loki interrupted. "I trust you haven't forgotten. I am chained." He bit off each word with bitter emphasis.

"But you defeated an entire army of trolls today, Loki, chained or no."

Loki looked away, his jaw suddenly stiff. "That was illusion, Thor, and a simple one at that, not some grand victory. And yet such childish devices are the only weapons left to me. What was it you said to me, once? 'Some do battle, while others do tricks'?

Thor laid his bowl down and bent solemn eyes on his brother, until his silence compelled Loki to return his gaze. Gravely, then, he said, "I would hope that you would leave such foolish words in the past. Where they belong."

Loki chuckled, humorlessly. "Sigunn told me today that the past should not be allowed to build fortresses in the present."

Thor studied him, and then nodded. "She is right."

After a long moment, Loki said, "Perhaps."

Thor stood, and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at his brother. "That may have been what you deem a 'simple trick' today, brother, but it was valiant and clever and saved all of us. You can do the same again, with the fire giant."

Loki shook his head. "An  _eldjotun_  prince is a greater foe altogether than a flock of stupid, weak-minded trolls, easily deceived. And even that weapon is denied me, Thor. The fire giant can penetrate a glamour; he has already shown that. He did it with ease, back at the tavern."

The planes of Thor's face tightened.

Loki smiled sourly. "So, you see, my bag of tricks is blowing rather empty in the wind."

Thor rounded on him. "You are more than a bag of tricks, brother. Just as I am more than a Hammer." He lifted a hand, and, after a hesitation, laid it on Loki's shoulder. "You will think of something,"

Loki shook his head, and stared into the fire, his eyes bleak. After a moment, he leaned forward, just enough so that Thor's hand fell away.

Fandral emerged from the bath house, pulling on a tunic with one hand and carrying his boots with the other. HIs eyes lighted at once on the bowls, and he exclaimed, "I say, food at last! Excellent hunting, Thor, although I'm sure the kitchen maids were more than pleased to. . ."

The fire in the pit flared brightly, gathering itself into a single tall blazing tongue, and then, with an audible whoosh, the flames flew upward and disappeared through the smoke-hole in the roof, plunging the room into darkness.

Thor could feel Loki's sudden, intense stillness. He heard his brother's indrawn breath, and his muttered "Sigunn. . ."

Then, with a vicious oath, Loki spun and ran from the chamber.

* * *


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thor faces an impossible choice. . .

_**Storm's Eye** _

_**Part 15/20** _

_In a guest chamber, and later the courtyard, of the House of Iwaldi . . ._

"These are all that I could find," said a quiet voice, and a young woman, a girl really, stepped over the threshold into the guest chamber, and stopped just inside the door, an untidy bundle of clothing clutched to her chest. She hesitated, and then she added, softly, "my sister."

Sigunn turned and smiled, motioning her forward. "Thank you, Syn." She plucked the ragged edge of her filthy blouse, and held it out for her sister's inspection, quirking an ironic brow. "It was a loathsome prospect, to re-don these unspeakable clothes after a long soak in the bath, but I fear any of my own clothing is still over there. . ."

She gestured out the tall window, which opened out onto the large courtyard in the center of the estate. Past its bordering wall, far across the estate's carefully tended vineyards, the slanted roof of a small house stood silhouetted black against the faint remaining glow of sunset.

Syn smiled weakly in return, and walked a few more steps into the room, her eyes widening as she tried without success to avoid staring at her eldest sister. Slowly she said, "Would not you rather be there, tonight, in your old house? Isn't it strange to be shown to a guest chamber?"

"Well, I have always been a guest in this house, Syn. Have I not?"

Syn's face fell, her jaw working slightly as she groped for a response. Sigunn turned to her, and then stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. "Forgive me, sister. That was . . .a bitter draught I just handed you, and you are certainly not the one who should swallow it."

Syn shook her head. "No. If it is bitter, I should partake of it as well. I could have chosen to seek you out, before you left us for the city. I could have chosen to be more of a sister to you."

Sigunn smiled. "That's very kind, little one. But it's not a burden you need bear. The past is past."

Syn nodded, and held out the bundle of clothing. She said, leaning closer, "Did you really ride here with the Princes of Asgard?"

Sigunn took the clothes, and walked into the chamber's dressing room. "One of them, anyway."

"Which one?"

There was a pause, and the muffled sounds of clothing being doffed. After a moment, Sigunn's voice answered, "Prince Loki." Her tone was simple and cool, and invited no further questions.

Syn opened her mouth to ask them anyway, and then closed it again. She wandered instead around the room, and paused beside a small table. Her sister's mud-crusted boots rested underneath it, and on its polished surface lay a tightly-rolled scroll of parchment, weighed down carefully with a bronze dagger shaped in the graceful curve of a horse's head. She reached out one finger to touch it; her few memories of her eldest sister were of a gentle, quiet person, a dim figure at one end of the feasting table. Somehow the dagger and the boots gave lie to those memories, and Syn felt a hard knot of anger twist itself tight in her belly. Her father's fears had kept her, had kept all of them, from knowing the Sigunn who carried daggers. The Sigunn who rode with princes.

A movement in the corner of her eye: she looked up to find her sister watching her, dressed now in a pair of old buff-colored breeches and a flowing green tunic, her feet bare.

"Will that do?" Syn asked anxiously. Somehow she felt that this companion of princes deserved finer clothes than her next eldest sister's worn castoffs.

To her surprise, Sigunn grinned, a broad, infectious grin that called up an answering smile. She smoothed her hands over her midriff, fingering the tunic's embroidered edging. "They will do very well. In fact, these garments remind me of. . .another costume, that someone else wore not too long ago." The glint in her eye told Syn that there was a story there; she suddenly wanted very much to hear it.

For her part, Sigunn allowed herself the briefest indulgence in the memory of Loki's tavern glamour, which melted almost at once into a memory of his voice. . .

_I wanted to kiss you, in the tavern. . ._

And then she felt the warm, lingering heat of his lips on hers, the firm planes of his body against her own, with the shouts of trolls rattling the air around them.

Her sister was studying her, eyes gleaming with intense curiosity. Sigunn took a stern grasp on her mind's wandering eye, steering it emphatically back to the present, and walked over to join her sister at the table. She picked up the dagger, and Syn said, "Surely you're not going to sleep with that? And in your clothing?"

"Well, my sister, in the past few days I have learned to tread lightly, and be always girt for battle. . ."

Her voice trailed away. Before her eyes she saw her sister's bright face, and beyond that the tall, open window, and the courtyard, lit softly with slender, evenly-spaced lamps, and ornamented with a large, raised basin, a fountain at its center. The far wall was a black border, the open gate's gilded edges gleaming faintly. The sound of the fountain's splashing rippled gently at the outermost edge of hearing. In the spaces between the lamps, the night was gathered into pools of soft shadow.

And something was standing there, in the shadows nearest the window; she saw a red flash that might have been glowing eyes.

Everything inside her stilled, and then twisted into cold, knotted fear.

Carefully she schooled her face, and forced her eyes back to her sister.

"Syn," she said, clearing her throat. "Forgive me, but I'm. . .terribly thirsty. . ."

As Sigunn had known she would, Syn said eagerly, "Oh, let me fetch you some water. Or a flagon of wine?"

Sigunn stretched her lips into a grimace of a smile. "Yes, wine, please." She thought desperately, trying to remember what vintage was kept in the furthest cellars. "The sect, perhaps? Or the honey mead?"

"Of course. I'll return as fast as I can."

"Please don't hurry, little one."

As her sister's footsteps scurried away, and the guest chamber door swung shut behind her, Sigunn walked slowly forward, her fingers tightening around the horsehead dagger, and stepped out through the tall window into the darkness beyond.

"There's no need for your little bodkin," said a low voice, rasping, amused. The figure moved forward, into the light spilling out from the room. It was Lady Sif.

"Perhaps you'll let me be the judge of that."

Sif shrugged. "As you wish."

She lifted a hand, and pointed. "There, without the wall, your swain Theoric awaits, with three saddled horses. And I see that you're already dressed for riding."

Sigunn traced the edge of the dagger's hilt with her fingertips, her face set and white. "I ride only the stallion Bruni. And he's safely ensconced in my father's stable."

"Oh, surely any mount will do. We've a long ride before us."

"A ride I won't be taking."

"Are you certain? You haven't heard the bargain I'm prepared to offer you."

Sigunn studied the cold eyes, searching for any hint of Lady Sif in their dark depths. There was none. As the silence stretched, the red glint around the dark pupils pulsed and brightened.

Finally Sigunn said, her voice wavering slightly, "I have no interest in anything you might offer me, creature."

A short laugh, though the eyes flashed a warning. "And here I was prepared to give up something I have ardently wished for. All for you."

Sigunn shook her head. "Your wishes mean nothing to me."

"No? Even if what I wish is to suck the life out of your black prince?" Sif stepped closer, leaning forward, the voice a cold hiss. "Come with me now, Sigunn. Come with me quietly, and I will leave this place without harming him. I will let him be."

Sigunn looked away, her neck muscles stiff with sudden strain.

The voice deepened. "You will come with me this night, Lady, whether willingly or no. And if you . . . make a fuss, I'm certain the black prince will seek to challenge me." A gravelly laugh. "It will be a short battle."

Sigunn's eyes sharpened; she turned her face back to meet the dark gaze. "Perhaps Loki is the more powerful."

Sif's head shook, mockingly, though the eyes were measuring her. "Perhaps, at one time he was. But not now. Something is . . .hindering him. He is shackled somehow. I can sense the deep well of power in him, but he cannot dip into it. Such a pity."

She turned, stretching out her arms; her teeth gleamed whitely as she favored Sigunn with a broad smile. "Whereas I have so many sources of power. So many fires burning here on your father's estate."

And she reached out one hand in a summoning gesture. The fire burning within the guest chamber hearth suddenly gathered itself into a single curling flame and leaped out through the window. From across the courtyard, and overhead, more tongues of flame appeared, soaring out of chimneys and around corners. They gathered in a swirling mass over Sif's head.

Sigunn stumbled backward, her hand to her mouth, swallowing a horrified gasp as the flames wrapped themselves around Sif's body, engulfing her for the briefest of moments, and then, as she tilted her head back, disappearing down her throat in a single, long sigh. When she lowered her head, her eyes were glowing a solid, incandescent red, like coals nested in the hottest hollow of the fire.

Sigunn felt a sick fear choking her own throat.

She swallowed it and whispered, "With such fire all around, then, you have no need of me."

Sif's brows rose derisively. "Please, Sigunn, can you truly compare these little drabbles of flame to the blazing inferno of the battlefire? You are not such a fool."

The eyes narrowed. "Or, if you are a fool, it is only where the black prince is concerned."

Sigunn held herself still, willing her face into expressionless stone.

Slowly the figure before her stepped closer, the red fire flaring in the eyes. "But surely, Lady, if you can love one  _jotun,_  you could learn to love another."

"Love?"

"Long have I watched over you. And loved you."

"You have little understanding of that word,  _eldjotun_ , if by love you mean your plan to take the battlefire and thus my life."

"I wonder if you can comprehend the time. . .the long, long time that I have waited. The bargain with the Halfdanir, and the debt between Halfdan and Iwaldi, and then the slow, interminable years where the fire sputtered and died despite all of the Iwaldirs' promises to the contrary. Your great-grandmother, your grandmother, your mother. . ."

"That's not love. That is greed, and lust for power."

"At first, perhaps, when the bargain was an abstract, future thing. But then, when you were born, and the fire burned in you. . . .Always I have watched you. Can you imagine my delight, when you burned down the stable around Gyrd Bragasson? It was I who rescued you that day. I pulled you from the fire, and laid you upon the cool earth for your foolish family to find. I who brushed the ash from your face and the soot off your shoulders."

Sigunn forced the stiff angles of her face into a sneer. "In the person of Theoric. Hiding. Cloaking yourself in the flesh of others. Skulking like a coward."

Sif's face hardened. "I am many things, but never a coward, and never a fool. It was necessary that I remain hidden. Did you think I could merely stroll into this courtyard and announce myself? 'The _jotun_  is here!'"

She was close now, reaching out a hand to touch Sigunn's face. Sigunn leaned away.

There was a silvery flash, and Sif jerked backwards with a harsh cry. Through her upraised hand was impaled a slim, glassy blade, a dagger made of ice. Sigunn whirled, to see Loki standing there, in the shadows between the two nearest lamps. He flashed her a quick, sardonic grin, and then turned his eyes toward Sif, his face darkening.

"True words," he said, "Always depending, of course, upon which _jotun_  you are referring to."

As he spoke, he walked closer, angling his body in front of Sigunn's, his hand sliding down her arm as he pushed her gently behind him. Sif was clutching her wrist, but the black, red-fired eyes watched Loki's hand as if mesmerized by its slow, quiet movement, and the easy familiarity of its touch. The red fire grew, and Sif's lips drew back into a snarl.

"Black prince," the voice thickened into a growl, a deep rumble formed in the belly of a much larger body than Sif's. "Do you think to take from me the thing for which I have waited all these years?"

From across the courtyard, the thud of running footsteps: Theoric Gyrdson emerged through the far gate, just as Thor and Fandral burst around a corner and into the courtyard. For a moment all three men paused, and then, as Theoric drew his sword, Fandral wheeled toward him, his own blade rising. There was a clash of steel, and Fandral's voice ringing out cheerfully, "I think perhaps you should give this match a miss, Theoric, my boy." Thor's eyes turned toward his brother.

Loki's face was cold, all humor drained from it. "No," he said. "Sigunn is not a prize to be taken, not by anyone."

Sif raised her hand; the icy dagger embedded in it began to glisten; a single drop of water beaded at its tip and ran along the edge, and then the entire blade smoked with steam and evaporated.

Thor grimaced and put his hand to the Hammer, sliding forward a few more steps. Loki glanced over at him, for the barest instant, raising the corner of one brow. His hand, still resting on Sigunn's arm, tightened and pulled, a tiny pressure in Thor's direction.

Sigunn's body tensed. She looked over at Thor; his eyes flickered toward her, and he raised a beckoning hand in her direction, and instantly the courtyard exploded into a whirl of motion. Suddenly Sif's injured hand was filled with the smoky, shifting outline of a curved blade, its edge igniting into a curling wave of flame. She thrust it forward toward Loki's throat. He feinted to the side, out into the courtyard, and she pivoted to follow him. Sigunn backed up against the house wall, but then, as Thor ran forward a step, she fled to his side, her face white.

In the soft light of the courtyard, Sif and Loki circled. Sif brought her blade back around, sideways, and Loki blocked the blow with his forearm. There was a shimmer of green light, and Thor, who had reached out to grasp Sigunn's arm and pull her behind him, saw Loki's face twist with momentary pain.

 _No magic, Loki_ ,  _don't fight the chains_ , he wanted to shout. But the  _eldjotun_ was a creature adept in magic: what other weapon could be brought to bear against it?

 _And,_ his mind whispered _, it is Sif. We can't harm Sif!_

His fist grasped the Hammer, and then let it go again.

_It is Sif._

He could not strike her down.

_Sif._

Loki retreated, several steps, his eyes intent. The blade in Sif's hand stretched and rippled, and now it was a sword. Her eyes flared, and she swung it with both hands. A glowing shield of green flashed into being around Loki's arm, and the blade crashed down upon it with a baleful clang and a shower of green and golden sparks. Loki's free hand remained empty, and Thor felt his chest tightening. The sword had never been Loki's chosen weapon.

Three more heavy strokes, the fiery sword hammering down on the glowing green shield. She was forcing Loki backward, toward the fountain in the center of the courtyard.

Thor growled, deep in his throat. He stepped forward, hand on the Hammer again. Behind him, he heard Sigunn's shaking, indrawn gasp.

Loki backed, one more step, banging his leg sharply against the low wall of the fountain's basin. Then the shield disappeared, and as Sif lunged forward to strike again, he leaned back, and swept both arms forward. From within the basin a wall of water surged upward, curling up over Loki's head and pouring down on Sif, drenching her completely. She gave a furious howl, and with a sullen, smoking flash, the sword's fire winked out.

Loki edged around the basin, keeping it between himself and Sif. She shook the water from herself like an angry cat, and then followed, stalking him, her hands empty for a moment, the fingers working angrily. The glow in her eyes dimmed as her eyelids dropped in narrowed thought. Loki matched her movements, and between them the fountain murmured its quiet, unheeding song.

"You cannot best me." The rasping voice rose lowered, the words measured out as if the  _eldjotun_  were testing their strength as each one passed Sif's lips. "You are weak, somehow. Restrained."

Loki said nothing. Sigunn sobbed under her breath, and wrenched at her arm with all her strength. Thor looked down at her, startled.

"Let me go," she whispered. "He will leave Loki alive if I go with him. He offered me that."

"No, Lady. It won't come to that." Thor's grip on her arm tightened, and he loosed the Hammer from its resting spot at his side.

"Creature," he growled. "It is my strength, not my brother's, that should concern you."

The  _eldjotun_  spared him a bare glance through Sif's dark eyes, the corners of her mouth tipping upward in an ironic smile.

"I haven't forgotten you, Thunderer, nor have I forgotten what you hold in your grasp." The eyes slid to Sigunn's anguished face, and the smile broadened, "And you are right. All the power in this little battlefield belongs to you, but it is not the power of the storm, or the Hammer."

Thor gripped Mjolnir tighter, and raised it upward toward the sky.

"You dare not strike me with lightning." Sif's face smirked.

"No," said Loki, his voice low; his eyes slid to Thor for a moment. "But with the hail? or the cold rain? Will your fire still burn so hot?"

Thor thrust the Hammer higher; the sky overhead rippled, distorting the starlight. Clouds began to race in from every direction.

The  _eldjotun's_  smile vanished, and Sif's head swiveled to sear Loki with a hot glare. "Perhaps not, but even that is not the true power your brother wields."

"What power?" Thor growled.

The head turned back toward him, the eyes glowing like the heart of a fire. "The power of choice, of course. Your choice, Thunderer."

And suddenly there was in Sif's hands a glowing spear constructed of flame and ash. She winked at Thor, a mocking grimace, and then spun and hurled it at Loki with such force that it split the air like a thunderclap.

Sigunn screamed. Loki thrust out a hand in a negating gesture; there was a flash of green light and the spear richocheted away and exploded in a cloud of red smoke.

But the  _eldjotun_  had filled Sif's hands immediately, with two more spears, their barbed heads dappled with molten drops of liquid fire. Loki's shoulders had hunched in pain; he stumbled backward a step, and Sif hurled the spears.

Loki raised both hands this time, and then flung his arms wide, spreading a transparent wall of green light between himself and the spears. They struck it full force, kindling a ball of mingled red flame and glowing green light, so bright that, for a moment, Loki was hid from sight.

But when the flame dissipated, he had fallen to his knees on the ground.

The  _eldjotun_  laughed, and conjured another spear.

"No!" Sigunn shouted. "No! I will come with you."

"I'm retracting that bargain, Lady," the  _eldjotun_  said; Sif's lips barely moved as the creature within her spoke. "The power is the Thunderer's. Who do you love best, Thor? Whose life will you choose? Your friend or your brother?"

Loki had pulled himself to his feet, again, and his eyes were fixed on Thor, their meaning so clear that even a child could have read it.

_Don't let her go. Don't let her give herself up for me._

Thor's face tightened with anguish. He pulled Sigunn closer and his fingers flexed on the Hammer, and lightning cracked the sky above.

Loki turned eyes blazing with rage and hatred on his foe. He glared across the fountain's pool, and said, "Not his choice. Mine." And he twisted his hands together, and then pulled them apart, creating another shield of green light. He hefted it with one hand, his lips writhing with pain, and with the other hand he conjured his own spear, of ice so cold it steamed in the night air.

The  _eldjotun_  turned Sif's face toward Thor, though her eyes didn't leave Loki, and she said, "That's a foolish choice, black prince. I wouldn't have thought that you would choose death." She flashed a wicked smile at Thor. "If you're going to strike me down, now's the time."

She flung the spear, and as it flew it rippled in midair and transformed into a giant ball of flame. Loki's eyes widened; he dropped his own spear and threw up his hand. His shield flared more brightly green, but his whole body twisted awkwardly in pain, and a deep groan escaped him.

The fire struck him, lapping around the edges of his shield, but somehow he kept his feet. Sif's hands were already filling with another blast of flame.

Thor's face was wracked with anguish: release the lady, and let the creature take her? strike the creature down, and thus kill his dear friend? allow his brother, his brother, his  _brother_  to shatter himself in the grasp of the envenomed chains?

There was no more time for thought. Loki, against all possibility, was straightening his body to somehow summon up another blast of magic, a final surge of power that Thor was certain would destroy him. The  _eldjotun_  sensed it, too; with a low chuckle, Sif lowered her hands, taunting Loki to strike at her. Loki drew in a breath, gathering himself.

Sigunn? Sif? Loki? A white-hot wave of fear and rage erased all further thought from Thor's mind. It was an impossible choice. And when faced with such a choice, it is the heart and not the mind that does the choosing.

And so Thor dropped the Hammer, and released his hold on Sigunn's arm. He launched himself forward, in a flying leap, straight at Loki. Loki's eyes flickered toward him, and, in the instant before Thor struck him, they flared wide in astonishment and pained betrayal. Then Thor grabbed him around the chest, and both of them crashed to the ground. The green light of Loki's gathering magic vanished with an audible crackle.

At once, with the threat of the Hammer removed, the  _eldjotun_  snuffed the fire in Sif's hands. She whirled. And, as Sigunn ran forward, her eyes fixed on the tumbled pile of limbs and bodies that was Thor and Loki, Sif seized her arm and yanked her close.

"Not so quickly, my lady. This way, if you please." Sif's voice hissed, and she pulled Sigunn forward, toward the wide gate in the courtyard wall. On the far side of the courtyard, Fandral let out a shout, his grip on Theoric tightening so painfully that the younger man yelped.

Thor pushed himself to his knees; Loki heaved himself up on one elbow, his every movement stiff with pain, his eyes seeking Sigunn. SIf's arm was about her, propelling her firmly forward; they had almost reached the gate.

Loki's eyes blazed; he levered himself upward with one arm. Thor grabbed him, growling "No, Loki!" Sigunn's head turned, her feet dragging and stumbling; she was leaning back, fighting Sif's grip on her arm.

"Sigunn!" Loki shouted, desperation giving wind to his pain-wracked lungs, "The waterfall! The troll at the waterfall!"

Sigunn's eyes widened; she stumbled again as Sif pushed her forward.

_The waterfall? The waterfall. . ._

_The troll!_

_Loki blinded the troll with a handful of snow. . ._

With the outsized strength borne of fear and despair, Sigunn ripped her arm from Sif's grasp, and, as the warrior lunged forward to seize her once more, she fell to her knees, scooped up a handful of gritty dust from the courtyard's graveled surface, twisted her body, and flung it upward directly into Sif's eyes.

Sif cried out, harshly, her hands flying to her face. Sigunn leaped to her feet, and backed away. Sif's eyes were streaming, blinded.

And a blind vessel was of no use to the  _eldjotun_.

There was a muted, dreadful sound of tearing flesh. Sif's mouth opened and her eyes widened, and for a moment Sifunn found herself staring into the dark eyes, and saw the startled, panicked recognition there, and knew that she was seeing Sif herself.

Then Sif's body was obscured in swirling smoke, smoke that coalesced into a looming form behind her. She fell, crumpled, and Sigunn gasped and took one hesitant step toward her, one hand reaching out. A slick of blood bloomed over Sif's heart, glistening in the soft light of the courtyard lamps.

Thor was on his feet once more; he thrust out his hand and the Hammer flew into his palm with a loud smack. The shadowy form of the  _eldjotun's_  head shifted toward him for an instant, and then, with unearthly speed, he swept over Sif's prone body, gathered Sigunn up, and whirled both her and himself out of the gate.

Fandral cursed, once and loudly, and dropped the blade he'd been holding to Theoric's neck to sprint to Sif's side and throw himself down beside her, hands reaching toward the wound over her heart. For an instant the courtyard was silent but for Sif's harsh indrawn breaths, and the thudding echo of Theoric's feet as he fled out the gate. Thor roared an oath then, and ran forward. Loki struggled up onto one knee, and then his feet, stumbling, the venom robbing him of any of his usual grace. His face was ravaged with towering fury.

Thor reached the gate, Hammer poised to strike. But all of them could hear the retreating, pounding hoofbeats of three horses, disappearing into the thick darkness that pressed down upon the estate from every side. The clouds overhead still hid the stars, and so Thor, though his eyes sought desperately, did not dare to throw the Hammer, for fear of striking neither Theoric nor the  _eldjotun_ , but rather their captive.

He reared back, his anguish and rage transforming into a black wave of guilt and powerless despair, and slammed the Hammer down upon the ground with force enough to crack the courtyard walls and send a shockwave billowing through the bedrock beneath.

He turned back, then, the recollection of Sif's crumpled form lighting a tiny glimmer in the midst of the blackness clouding his mind, pushing its edges back far enough for him to think again. A quick glance reassured him that Fandral was tending to her; he'd ripped a long strip from her cloak and was bandaging the fearful wound the eldjotun had caused in departing from her. Beyond them, then, his eyes sought Loki. He had fallen again; as Thor ran forward, he braced himself, hand on knee, and slowly stood. His breathing was hoarse and ragged.

"Loki! Please. . ." He reached forward, but Loki leaned away from his hand as if it were a striking viper.

"You struck me down. You let him take her." It was the savage voice of someone walking in the burning lands far beyond the borders of mere rage.

"You were destroying yourself. I could not. . .Loki, I could not let you!" His voice broke. He returned Mjolnir to its place at his side, and then reached out both hands, spreading them, imploring. "Forgive me, brother. I could not."

Loki's face was implacable. "We must go after them."

"Yes, yes, of course, but you must . . .recover for a moment. And Sif. . ." Thor's hands curled into fists. Every choice he'd made this night had boded ill: and yet what other choice could he have made?

Loki leaned forward, supporting himself with both hands on his thighs; gradually the pained rattle of his breathing quieted, and finally, after many moments, he straightened. Thor said nothing; he merely stood and looked upon his brother, his uncertainty and guilt bowing his powerful shoulders.

At last, Loki lifted his head, and looked into Thor's face, and said, "I would have given my last breath rather than let him take her."

Thor nodded, his eyes bleak. "I know that. And so . . . I struck you down."

After a pause, he whispered, "Forgive me. You're my brother. My  _brother_ , Loki."

Loki was silent. After a long, still moment, slowly, he nodded.

Sif sighed, then, a long, drawn-out breath. Thor whirled about, and came to crouch beside her, slipping his arm around her shoulders as she struggled to sit. Fandral had bound a bandage, over her shoulder and under her arm, and, though it was already stained with soaked-through blood, nevertheless the pale, waxen stillness of her face had warmed and softened. She looked up, into Thor's concerned eyes, and frowned.

"You look terrible," she said.

And it was Sif's voice, and Sif's clear dark eyes. Despite everything, Thor face lit with unfettered joy.

She sat up, further, and her eyes slid past Thor to Loki, as he came to stand and gaze down at her. Slowly she said, "I'm sorry, Loki. I would not have traded my life for hers, not like this."

Loki's gaze sharpened. "You know what happened? You were . . . aware?" He bent down, staring into her face. "Sif, do you know where he would take her?"

She pressed her hand to her brow, her eyes bleak, "I'm not sure. It's all unclear. . .like smoke. Or a storm."

Fandral spoke then, his voice grim. "Would he not seek to take her to Muspelheim? Surely that has been his goal all along?"

Loki's body hunched, as if the words were a physical blow. He stood and said, "There must be a portal, somewhere."

Thor frowned. "But, Father would never allow that."

"If he knew." Loki's voice was low and dark.

"If there is a portal, you're the only one who could find it," Thor said. "Will the chains allow you, to seek? to Walk?"

The memory of the searing pain that had ended his last attempt at Walking slithered through Loki's mind like a venomous serpent. His mouth tightened into a thin line. "I'll try. I'll need a moment."

"No." It was Sif's voice.

When they all turned back to her, she looked up at them, a troubled frown creasing her brow.

"No," she said, slowly, "This isn't right. Something about it isn't right. . ."

Thor crouched down again, beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. "What isn't?"

"The  _eldjotun_. . ." She lifted both hands to her head, frowning fiercely. "I could hear him, sometimes, his thoughts, thundering away far above my own." She looked up at Loki. "Mostly he thought about her, the Victory-Bringer."

Loki's face hardened. "DId he think about what he planned to do with her?"

"He wanted the battlefire. . ."

"Yes," Thor said. "He told us that. He must plan to use its power to challenge Surtur himself."

Sif shook her head, her eyes brightening. "No, no, that's not it." She reached up a hand, gripping Thor's arm as the memory seeped back. "He has no desire to confront Surtur; he's here at Surtur's behest."

Her face tightened then, and she said, "He seeks to challenge your father, Thor. He seeks to lead the armies of Muspelheim into Asgard, and overthrow the House of Odin."

* * *

__


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fiercest soul in Asgard; and the only way to battle a fire giant. . .

**Storm's Eye**

**Part 16/20**

_At the beginning and the end of a grueling journey. . ._

Later, in the years to come, when his small sons asked him about that night and that ride, one climbing up into his lap and one leaning against his leg, Loki found that he could tell them little. He remembered snatches of it, flashes of brilliantly-lit memory like the white-washed earth under the sword-strike of the lightning: Thor dipping the end of his cloak in the fountain to bathe the grit and sand from Sif's reddened eyes; Fandral pacing impatiently, whipping his sword from side to side; his own fingers sliding slickly against one another; looking down to see his hand netted with blood where the courtyard's sharp pebbles had sliced open his skin when he had fallen. When Thor had struck him down.

He remembered Thor bending suddenly, and scooping up an object that lay in the dust, glinting in the courtyard's soft light. He had stood gazing down at it for a breath or two, and then had turned and, without comment, walked over to Loki and extended it: a dagger, in the shape of a horse's head. He remembered the stiffness in his hand as he curled his bloodied fingers around the dagger's hilt, and Thor's eyes, dark with remorse and uncertainty. Thor's voice saying hoarsely, "We will get her back from him." He had looked at the dagger as it lay in his palm, and he had seen instead Sigunn's face, in the Court of Archers, when he had created it for her.

He remembered that there was some discussion, amongst Thor and Sif and Fandral, while they'd rebandaged her wound: Thor had been certain they could overtake the  _eldjotun_.

_They're not that far in advance of us._

And Sif's stern shake of the head.

_He'll run the horses mercilessly. He'll run them into the ground._

Loki had ignored them: their words were a faint, background murmur that could not penetrate the roaring cacophony of his own thoughts. Fandral had continued to stride, back and forth before the fountain, throwing a curious glance his way now and then, but he had stood, still and tall, his head bowed. They, none of them, had understood the depth of strength it had taken not to raise both fists to the sky and blast it open with a surge of dark, rage-and-fear-fueled energy. A surge that would put him on the ground, and render him incoherent with pain, but a surge that would relieve the roiling tempest battering his heart, and perhaps allow him to think clearly.

He had known, standing there, that Thor expected him to produce some clever,  _eldjotun_ -foiling strategy, once they stood face to face with the Fire Prince, some plan that would simultaneously defeat the enemy and rescue the lady. Oh, yes, the twin goals of every epic story throughout the Realms. His mouth quirked bitterly. Somehow he had never imagined himself as the hero in such a saga.

But his mind had never been so clouded; any attempt to string together more than two thoughts immediately imploded, into detailed images of Sigunn bent and wilting, twisting in pain, as a shadowy figure pulled the fire forcibly out of her body. Of the warm light in her eyes replaced by despair and fear, and then dulling into insensibility, and death.

And he had also known, standing there, how far his heart had been removed from his own keeping.

It made him weak, and he had always despised this weakness. He had learned, through the lessons of his youth, to guard his heart and build its towers high, and gird his vulnerable spirit well. And now, how the towers had fallen.

Weak. But also, though he did not see it then, inconceivably strong.

And so later, in the years to come, he ran his hand over his son's silky curls, and said, "I don't recall the journey. I remember only what came at the end."

* * *

While the horses were readied, Thor slid his hand down Mjolnir's handle, drawing some small measure of comfort from its familiar contours. But only a small measure. The usual upwelling of confident power was denied him, and his mind circled endlessly through the hour that had just passed. He felt his own body flying through the air, heard the forcible gasp of air leaving Loki's lungs as he and his brother slammed into the ground, watched the rage and betrayal flare up in Loki's eyes. He saw Lady Sigunn's small form dwarfed by the huge, smoke-blurred figure of the  _eldjotun_  as he picked her up bodily and whirled her away. The lady had fallen to the enemy, and his brother stood whole: that was the choice he'd made. It was immutable, and now they must all follow in the path that the choice was carving out for them, and find a way to turn that choice, though it felt like a defeat, into something that resembled victory.

And not for the lady's sake only. For the sake of the whole realm. For the sake of Asgard, and the House of Odin.

He glared impatiently. The servants he'd summoned with a roaring bellow had brought out Bruni, and Hrafn, and two Iwaldir horses for Sif and Fandral. Now they were hauling out the gear and tack, and hurriedly saddling the first horse.

A movement caught his eye then: Loki's head snapping upright. He spun on his heel to see Vidar Agmundson come striding into the courtyard, affronted dignity arranged carefully on his face, with the two palace guards close behind.

The guards' eyes fell at once on Sif, and both of them stiffened and drew blades, their shoulders squaring and faces blanching. One of them grasped Vidar's elbow and pulled the startled nobleman behind him with an ungentle abruptness that earned him a grunt of protest and a harsh glare.

Sif was still bent over the fountain, rinsing the last of the blinding sand and dust from her eyes. She straightened and turned, her own hand reaching instinctively for a blade, her dark eyes sweeping the courtyard for the new threat that had provoked the guard's reaction. But she saw only Thor stepping toward the man with an upraised hand.

"Stand down," he said, "It is Lady Sif."

She frowned. Their watchful eyes were riveted on her, following her every movement, she realized, as if she herself were the enemy.

The guard's blade remained upright. His voice was strained when he answered, "But, my lord, she killed. . ."

He stopped and swallowed.

Sif felt it like a punch in the belly. She turned to Thor. "Killed?"

Thor was shaking his head at the man. Almost gently, he said, "It was not she who did the killing. Stand down. Hear me."

The man's hand was white-knuckled on his sword's hilt. But slowly he nodded, and replaced the sword in its scabbard. The point was shaking, and it took him several tries.

Sif's eyes were locked on Thor, and when he felt her gaze and glanced at her, she walked toward him and asked, insistently, "Killed?"

A reluctant pause. Then Thor said, "We set out with four guards. One was. . .struck down."

"By me?" Her voice dropped.

"No," Thor's voice was low. "By the  _eldjotun_."

Sif's face hardened. "And. . .and what other deeds did the  _eldjotun_  do? With my hands?"

Thor was silent, for a moment, and she said, stricken, "Tell me."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I will, Sif. I will tell you the whole tale, when there is time. But now we must ride, and undo the _eldjotun_ 's evil as best we can." He looked over at Loki. "We must recover Lady Sigunn, and defeat the creature, and save my father's throne."

A half-smile turned up one corner of her mouth. "Well, then. I will wait. All of that will take us a few hours, at least."

"At the very least." He smiled back, his heart lightening, just a little, at the quiet jest in her voice. He paused and added, "There were no other deaths. And it is even possible that the one guard lives, still. We left him in the care of one of his fellows."

Her face sobered, but she nodded. "The whole tale, later, Thor."

"Aye." He lifted one hand, and gripped her shoulder, his eyes darkening again.

"What is the meaning of all this?" They had forgotten the nobleman, but now he stepped around the guards, eyes flashing with outrage. He studied each of them in turn, and then frowned and asked, "Where is Sigunn?"

Thor turned to him, unwilling to give more than a moment or two to this man, but before he could speak, Loki strode forward and stood before him, looking down on him with cold disdain. His voice cut like a blade. "The  _eldjotun_  has taken her."

Vidar shrank back, his face drawn suddenly, sagging like a man wounded in battle. "Taken her? She is. . . He took her fire?"

Loki stepped forward, one stride, and Vidar shuffled a step backward. "Not yet. But that is certainly what he intends. And what you intended."

"I never. . ."

Another stride forward, his voice a low hiss. "You did. For the sake of family honor and a coward's debt, you gave away for nothing your House's greatest treasure."

"She had a duty to the House! She is my daughter."

Loki's eyes were flat and hard. "You have no daughter. You are not worthy of such a daughter."

"I have done what I must for the House. . ."

"Then you should not have a House, if the House must be purchased at so steep a price. Since you are willing to buy your honor with Sigunn's life, then I will strip your honor from you."

He lifted his hand, and light flared along the blade of the horsehead dagger . Vidar gasped in fear, and staggered back, the motion abruptly halted by the two guards behind him. Thor cursed under his breath and took a step forward, but a lightning-quick, sidelong glance from under Loki's eyelids stopped him. The courtyard was a deep well of silence, broken by the whisper of metal against flesh as Loki drew the edge of the blade along his own forearm. A thin line of blood welled up, ruby beads gleaming in the dim light.

"I swear it with my own blood," he said. "The House of Iwaldi is no more. You are noble no longer."

He reached out with the dagger, and wiped the flat side of the blade against Vidar's richly embroidered tunic, leaving behind a streak of dark blood.

The man's face crumbled. His body slumped. Hoarsely he whispered, "You cannot. Only Odin Allfather can pull down a House. . ."

"I am Loki of Asgard. Prince of the House of Odin. And I do what I will."

Loki turned on his heel and strode silently away. In his wake, Vidar bent over double, his face in his hands.

Thor stared after Loki, his mind reeling.

_Prince of the House of Odin? Is he claiming the name of Odinson?_

He put that thought in the back of his mind, to mull over at some later moment. The horses were saddled and ready, and a quick glance at Sif assured Thor that she had recovered sufficiently to ride; blood was no longer soaking through the bandage over her heart. Fandral was already mounted, and Loki swung into Hrafn's saddle. Thor turned quickly to the two guards, who were staring after Loki as well. They came quickly to attention, and he said, voice low but pitched loud enough to reach Vidar's ears, though the man seemed beyond hearing, "You will stay here, both of you, and stand guard over this man. The treason he's committed will be answered, and my brother's word will be carried out, but in the meantime, he is in your charge."

The guards saluted, fists to chests, and bowed, to Thor, and then to Loki as well. Loki's face was already turned to the gate; he was wheeling Hrafn about, but Thor felt it, the equal allegiance to his brother and himself, and wondered why it surprised him, and then realized that he had never really seen it so clearly before, not from the palace guards, not until this moment.

His mouth thinned, and then he resolutely put that thought away as well.

He turned to Sif, who was arranging her sword along her saddle, her face lost in dark thoughts.

"You're certain?" he asked. "The  _eldjotun_  will make for the city?"

"Yes." A muscle moved in her cheek as she nodded. "All his thought was bent upon it."

"Then we make for it as well."

He ran forward and vaulted into Bruni's saddle. The red stallion's neck was stretched forward eagerly, and he leaped into a fleet-footed gallop. They all followed him out the gate and down the road, into the thick, black night.

* * *

_"But they were already weary, weren't they, Father, from journeying? Bruni and Hrafn?" This from Narfi, who was always concerned first about the horses._

_Loki smiled down at him. He bent his head to look fully into the small, worried face, and slid his hand down around the back of his son's neck, his thumb smoothing the curls at the nape. "Yet what have I told you about those two stallions? What did they have?"_

_"Heart!" shouted Vali, tugging at Loki's arm, eager for his own share of their father's attention. His hair fell over his eyes, and Loki pushed it back with his other hand._

_"Yes, heart." Loki said, his smile fading as the scattered memory of the long, dark ride took him. "And, for that journey, at that time, heart was what was needed most."_

* * *

Black night fading into gray dawn, and the interminable hours of daylight under the mockingly bright sunlight. Sun melting into purple dusk, and then surrendering its bright torch to stars and moon, and the press of night once more. Two days and more, filled with hard riding, walking only when the horses must be rested, pausing only when they couldn't go another stride.

A silent, desperate ride, broken only by the short words of necessary conversation. All of their ears tuned ever to the road ahead, to the faint and fading possibility that they might somehow overtake their enemy, and force the battle out in the wild lands, instead of in the heart of Asgard.

As they drew ever nearer to the city, and the horses grew steadily more weary, even that grim hope faded.

At sundown on the third day, they crested a knoll in the field of Ida, and saw the city's glow reaching out to embrace them. They reined in the horses, who lowered their exhausted heads and stood immobile, their strength too sapped even to crop the grass.

Loki reached out a hand to stroke Hrafn's dusty neck, his fingers tracing the ridges of dried lather. " _Hugr_ , Hrafn," he murmured. "Only a little further,  _hestr_."

Thor glanced at him, and finally broke the ride's long silence. "We did not overtake him. He must already be at large in the city."

Fandral stirred then, in his saddle, and his eyes slid to Loki's set face. An uneasy, silent moment stretched among the four of them, and then he said, quietly, "I'm devastated to be the one to say this, but I must speak. What hope do we have that the lady still lives? That he did not take what he wanted from her at once? How do we know she is even here?"

Loki's eyes flashed. "She lives."

"How can you be sure?"

"Why has he hidden himself all these long years? Disembodied? Using the flesh of others?"

"Ah," Fandral nodded. "Of course. Silly of me. To hide from Odin's Sight."

"Yes. He will not take the fire until he is ready to bring his attack out into the open."

There was a pause; now it was Thor whose face was arrested and grim, and he shifted in the saddle. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Loki regarded him with growing impatience, and he said, "Say it. Whatever you're thinking."

Thor's jaw set tightly. "What if he executed his plan as soon as he entered the city? Could he not be doing so, even as we speak. . ."

His voice trailed away.

Loki said, firmly, "No."

"What's to prevent him?"

"Sigunn."

Fandral shook his head, "She is only one small lady, possessed of great spirit, to be sure, but. . ."

Loki lifted his chin, his voice lowering. "You know nothing of her. None of you understand what she is."

"She is the Victory-Bringer," Sif said. "I know her. Or, at least, I know what he knew of her."

"You see only the fire, because that's all the  _eldjotun_  sees. She is more than that." He scanned their faces, seeing only doubt and guilt from Thor and Fandral, sorrow and regret from Sif. He frowned, and spread out one hand. "She walks daily through the halls of the palace bearing a burden that would drive any of you to your knees. There is no fiercer soul in Asgard! The fire prince may be stronger than she, in his physical body. His malice may be colder. His magic might be more potent. But she is his superior in heart and will! She will have found a way to deny him, to delay him. She will have found a way to survive."

He looked at Thor, his eyes intent. "And she will know that I'm coming for her."

Thor said, "All right, then, where will he have taken her? We cannot search the whole city."

Loki looked at Sif, brows raised. She frowned, and shook her head, eyes bleak. "I don't know. . . " She looked down, brow creased as she scoured through the jumbled impressions left in her memory by the eldjotun's thoughts. "The Halfdanir. . .? Would they have a house here in the city? Many of the nobles do."

Loki and Thor exchanged a glance. Fandral was already gathering up the reins. Thor said grimly, "Let's find out."

* * *

The gatehouse guard lifted his head and straightened his spine at the sound of approaching horses, though he frowned as they neared. The gait was strange: erratic and slow, as if the beasts were barely keeping their feet. With a slight shrug at his fellow guard, he stepped out of the guardhouse.

Four horses stood there, their heads drooping in exhaustion, shoulders streaked with dried sweat. And on the back of a large red stallion sat the crown prince of Asgard, his face and garb stained with the dust and grime of hard travel. Beside him, the younger prince, the black prince, leaned one forearm over the pommel of his saddle, his green eyes gleaming.

The guard stiffened to full attention. Prince Thor said, "Has another party of travelers entered the city today?" His voice was urgent.

His fellow guard had joined him, saluting smartly, and he answered, "Yes, several, my lord."

"This would have been a party of. . ." the prince looked over at his brother, who said, "Two. Probably. With three horses, perhaps. A man and a woman."

"Yes, my lord, there was such. At least, I think it was a woman. She was wrapped in a cloak and he said she was unwell. I couldn't see her face, and she was very still."

All four faces before him hardened so sternly that the guard felt a cold fist form in his belly.

"How long ago?" the younger prince asked sharply.

"Four hours, perhaps. After noontide, for certain." The guard looked at his companion, who nodded in confirmation.

The crown prince leaned forward. "Did you see which way they went, after they entered the gate?"

The guard winced slightly. "I'm sorry, my lord, no."

Prince Loki's eyes studied him; he shifted under their close regard. "You are a gate guard," he said. "You know the city well."

"Yes, my lord."

"Do you know the House of the Halfdanir? It would be a nobleman's house."

The guard's face lightened. He rocked back on his heels, delighted to be able to give a helpful answer. "Yes. It's hard by the palace, my lord. On the far side, from here. A large, round-towered house, with a firewyrm engraved upon the gate."

As the last word left his lips, the four horses were already clattering away, their hooves loud on the pavement.

The two men watched them go, and the first guard said sadly to the second, "And the worst part of it is, we'll never know what that was all about."

* * *

The city dwelling of the House of Halfdanir was indeed hard upon the palace. It shared a wall with one of the palace gardens, and atop that wall, crouched in the shadow of a large, overhanging willow, the four of them contemplated its stern, pale walls and dark windows.

"It looks like a skull," Sif whispered.

Fandral shot a crooked grin at her. "The skull of a mighty strange beast."

Thor bent closer to Loki. "How can we determine for certain that they're within?"

He felt rather than heard Loki take a deep breath. "I'll. . . steal a glimpse."

Thor froze. "Can you?"

Loki's face set into hard lines. "You'll need to hold me."

"What?"

Loki's voice turned savage and low. "Hold me, hold my arm. Keep me from falling off this damned wall." And then, as both Fandral and Sif turned to stare at him, and Thor's eyes widened, he slipped deep inside himself, swore softly and bitterly at the chains around him, and Walked.

He was expecting the pain, this time, which made it both harder and easier to bear: the raw, serrated edges, scraping along his nerve endings like sharp slivers of bone scraping bare a fresh hide. He felt it slithering like a fiery serpent, down into his lungs, suffocating his breath, but he steeled himself against it, and in one swift, soaring Step, crossed the house's entry court and slid through the narrow gap between the door and its frame.

The venom had its fangs embedded now, pumping its poison deeper into his sinews with every moment that passed. A deep, dispassionate corner of his mind wondered dimly how far his capacity for pain could be stretched before he lost all coherence. If the rising waves of agony covered his head, would he drown in them? Would he be able to Walk his way back to his body?

The rest of his brain was shuttered, buried under the pain, leaving only one small center of thought and sight to focus on gliding through the house's central nave. Dimly, he heard voices, and he followed the sound, slipping around a corner and into a large hall.

A large, heavily populated hall. And there, seated at one end of a long table, were Theoric Gyrdson, and his father. Loki took one more Step, into the room, and suddenly, Gyrd Bragasson's back stiffened, and his head swiveled, and his eyes began to scan the room. They were glowing, solidly red.

Loki flung himself backward, out of the room, before the gaze could touch him. And then he could endure no more, and he turned, and fought his way back, the black waves rising higher with every Step.

When he came to himself, he was slumped over, his chest heaving, and Thor was gripping his arm and shoulder with both hands.

And all three of them were staring at him in horror.

Thor's face was rigid. "Loki?" he hissed.

Slowly, Loki levered his torso upward. The tide of pain began to recede, by aching inches. After a few breaths, he was able to say, "None other."

Thor's grip tightened. "You stopped breathing!"

Slowly, Loki shook his head, "No, I think not. Because then I'd be dead."

"I thought you were dying! Loki, I didn't know this situation was that dire!"

Sif said, "What just happened? What ails you?"

"I've never seen the magic . . . do that." Fandral said.

Loki turned his head and grinned at him, a bitter grimace. "That is because I have never had to access it while under such . . . duress."

"What duress? What is this?"

Thor growled, "He is chained."

"What?"

Loki's grin faded. "I am chained, Fandral. By the hand of Odin."

" _What?_ "

"Fandral, please. . ." Thor's voice was vibrating with impatience.

"All right, fine, far be it from me to voice a bit of well-deserved astonishment, but . . .how can this be?"

"Shall we discuss it later, over mead and roast boar? For now we have larger concerns!" Loki raised a brow at him.

Thor said, "What did you see?"

Loki spoke quickly, his eyes moving from each of their faces to the next. "He is there. The  _eldjotun_. He nearly perceived me. He's inhabiting the father."

Thor leaned back, though he still held Loki's arm in a firm grasp. "Good."

"That's not all, Thor. The house is stuffed to the rafters with  _eldjotnar_."

"What?"

Fandral drew back, slanting a glance at Thor. "I believe that's my line you've stolen there."

" _Eldjotnar_? You mean, an actual army?"

"A great many of them, at least. They looked strange somehow; still and silent, but they were there. It's his invasion force."

"How can that be possible? How can an entire legion of fire giants have entered the city without Father's knowledge?"

"A mystery to be solved," Loki said, "after we've found Sigunn."

Sif frowned. "You didn't see her."

Loki looked away. "No."

Thor lifted his hand from Loki's arm. "Let's go."

Loki sat back, his eyes darkening. "Where?"

Thor frowned at him. "To Father, of course."

"No."

All three of them studied him, with varying degrees of wariness and puzzlement. Thor said, finally, "Loki, this is a threat to the throne itself. We know the creature is here. We know what he plans. We must take these tidings to Father at once."

"No, Thor. Think. The  _eldjotun_. What will be his first response, if he senses any move against him, by Odin, or the palace guards?"

Sif answered, after a moment, "The battlefire."

Loki looked over at her, face hardening. "Yes. The battlefire." He turned his face back to Thor. "Whatever his ultimate scheme may be, if he is threatened he will seize his only advantage. The battlefire has been the cornerstone of all his plans. He will not hesitate to resort to it. And whatever strategy Sigunn is using to delay him will be lost."

Thor stared at him, doubt swirling in his eyes.

Loki continued, his voice dropping, "And so then she will be lost as well."

Thor's face tightened. His eyes were anguished. "Loki, I know you. . .care deeply for this lady, but this is an invasion! An enemy seeking to overthrow our House!"

"An enemy relying on magic, Thor. A magic that can be denied him."

"How?"

"He is disembodied now. To battle Odin he will need to be fully himself again, and for that he needs fire and blood. He needs Sigunn. We must steal her back."

"In which purpose our Father, with all of his power, would be of great assistance!"

"No. The  _eldjotun_  will kill her and take the fire the instant he senses that threat. Because he must have it in order to face Odin."

Loki paused. His green eyes studied each of their faces in turn, and his own face stiffened. He raised his chin. Slowly he said, "I can see a way, but. . . I cannot do it alone. I need you. All of you."

He could see the doubt in Fandral's eyes, the tight unease in Thor's shoulders. He spread his hands.

"This cannot be a frontal attack. It will be a different sort of battle. My sort of battle. You will have to trust me, and follow my lead once we get inside the house."

His jaw flexed suddenly. "Please. I . . .ask you to trust me." He looked at them, his eyes fiercely bright. "We all know what is at stake here. And I know that my way is the only way that will work. We've all fought alongside one another many times. So, now, this time, will you trust me? Will you follow me into battle?" His eyes settled on Thor, and fixed there.

Fandral and Sif turned to Thor. He was staring into Loki's face.

Then he slowly lifted his hand, from where it was resting on Mjolnir's handle, and laid it against Loki's neck. The doubt drained from his eyes, and he said, "Into battle, Loki. For the House of Odin."

Sif gripped the handle of her sword. "For vengeance," she said.

Fandral tapped his fist to his chest. "For death and glory."

Loki's eyes gleamed at them. "For life," he said. "For Sigunn."

Then he grinned at them, and said, "I believe we're just about to have a bit of fun. Are you ready?"

* * *


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different sort of invisibility; and uninvited guests at a wedding feast

**Storm's Eye**

**Part 17/20**

_The House of the Halfdanir, in the city. . ._

"I am in no mood for games, Loki." Thor's low voice carried the rumble of distant thunder. "Not when Asgard itself is at stake."

Loki's lips thinned into a hard line, eyes unreadable in the deepening blue light of nightfall. "This is no game, Thor. Sigunn's life is not a playing piece."

A thick silence, just for a moment. Then Thor huffed, and crossed his arms over his chest, and said, 'Very well, then, how will we get in and secure her, if the house is filled with enemies?"

Loki's teeth flashed. "We'll be invisible."

Sif looked up sharply. "Invisible? But surely that is a difficult magic. Are you able . . . Can you do that?"

Loki glanced at her. "it is indeed a difficult magic, which is why I won't be using it, given my current. . . limitations. This is invisibility of a different order."

He slanted a finger, and then a tilt of his head, toward Fandral. Sif's eyes slid toward him as well, and there was a muffled oath from Thor.

The garden's scattered golden lamps winked on, in response to the gathering night, and now they could see, where Fandral had been, a slim figure leaning easily against the wall in Fandral's usual pose: a young maiden, clad in the simple garments of a servant, with the firewyrm of the House of Halfdan embroidered on her shoulder. Her face wore Fandral's sardonic half-smile, which faded quickly under their stare.

"What?" she asked. It was Fandral's voice.

Loki said, "No one ever looks at servants. There is nothing more invisible than a scullery maid."

"What!" Fandral's voice notched upward in pitch and volume.

"Do you ever tire of that expression?" Loki lifted a brow, regarding him. "In any case, all you need is a scrub brush to complete the illusion."

"Now wait a moment. . ." Fandral pushed his shoulders away from the wall and looked rather frantically down at himself.

Thor leveled an ominous frown at Loki, . "You're going to disguise us all as. . .serving maids?"

Loki pursed his lips, nodding. "I already have."

Thor held out an arm, staring at it; it appeared the same as ever. Then he looked over at Sif, who now wore servant's garb and a completely different face, from which she was trying with little success to smother a smile. She carefully smoothed her expression and said, "You've rarely looked better, Thor."

He eyed his shadow, in the wavering light from the garden lamps. Instead of the outline of his own powerful shoulders, he saw a much smaller, more slender shape.

"Loki. . ." he growled.

Loki held up a hand. "Please, spare me the protests. A House such as this one will be overflowing with servants, and no one will give us a second thought, as long as you resist the urge to roar out a challenge at the first person we encounter. Altering your voices as well as your appearance requires more energy than I am willing to expend."

"But . . .  _maids_ , though." A slightly pained note entered Thor's voice.

Sif gave him a sidelong glance. "Scullery maids go throughout a House. Every corner of it needs cleaning. Loki is right; it's as good as being invisible."

Fandral was running one hand along his midriff; he lifted his chin toward Loki, skeptical. "My clothing's still the same."

"The glamour is a surface illusion. It only works on others."

Loki remembered, then, the last time he'd been obliged to give that explanation, and his brow creased suddenly over the image of Sigunn's laughing eyes.

_My heart is yours. . ._

"Let's be on with this," he said, smile vanished, his voice harsh. "Remember, the  _eldjotun_  is within the father, now, and we must avoid him at all costs. If he sees us, he will sense the glamour, and penetrate it in a matter of moments. At least, that's what happened with Sif, in the tavern."

He looked over at Sif as he spoke. She gazed back, a troubled uncertainty glazing her eyes.

Thor's face darkened. "And if he is with Lady Sigunn when we find her?"

"I will draw him off, and you will free her."

Slowly, Thor shook his head. "Draw him off? Loki, you cannot battle him. The chains. . ."

"The chains are irrelevant. His desire to end me may be the only thing greater than his lust for the battlefire. I will draw him off, and you will free Sigunn." He smiled, humorlessly. "You must, Thor. Asgard itself is at stake."

Thor's mouth had settled into stern lines, strangely incongruous on his disguised face. "Don't use my own words to block me. I will not allow you to face the fire prince alone."

"And I will not allow you to abandon Sigunn. Again."

Thor winced. "That's a cruel blow, Loki."

Tension radiated like sunfire between them, and Sif shot a dark glance at Fandral, who shrugged slightly, frowning. But then, with a visible effort, Loki shook it off, and said, "So it was. My apologies."

Thor blinked.

Loki continued, "But I am right, and you know it. The  _eldjotun's_  hatred for me is a weapon we must use against him."

"You can't. . ."

Loki blew out a breath.

"Well, then, let's hope he isn't with her." He was already turning back toward the wall, and as they watched, his own form shimmered briefly and a small, dark-haired servant maid stood in his place.

Reluctance etched itself in every angle of Thor's face, but, after a moment, he moved to follow.

Loki paused, though, and said, "One thing more, Thor. Mjolnir. It must stay here."

"What? No."

Loki turned back. "I cannot disguise it, not without a great deal more effort. It has its own . . .presence, and its presence is huge. You must leave it."

He turned his head slightly, toward Fandral and Sif; they both nodded, and Sif pointed at Thor's waist. The Hammer's outline was visible, a strange anomaly distorting the space where it hung at Thor's side.

After a long hesitation, Thor, his jaw tight, lifted Mjolnir from its place. He stepped over to a nearby tree, and wedged it into the crook between two branches. Then he turned back to Loki. Even his servant's guise couldn't hide the smoldering unease limning every muscle in his body.

"What if we run into trouble?" he growled.

Loki slanted a grim smile at him. "Let's not," he said.

Under cover of darkness, the four of them eased over the wall and dropped into the courtyard. They halted briefly, studying the enormous house: several of the dark windows flared with light as the rooms within were illuminated, and the gates and doors were all wide open now. Torches, mounted at corners and over arched doorways, cast shifting, uneasy shadows on the pale walls, which looked more than ever as if they'd been carved from the bones of Ymir himself. The faint sound of musicians tuning their instruments reached their ears.

Thor muttered, "Are they preparing for some sort of feast?"

Loki said, "Perhaps the fire giants prefer to make merry before an invasion rather than after."

They followed his small form along the wall's edge, around to the rear of the house, where a large, low-roofed stable crouched, with an open yard populated by several sleek, lounging hounds, and a garden, the trellised vines and mounding plants casting strange shadows against the wall.

There was a doorway, opening out into the garden; light and heat spilled from it, and they heard the clatter of something large and metal being dropped and rolling along a floor, and then an oath and someone laughing. Two servants trudged past the open door, lugging a mead barrel, their faces red with exertion, and a large, broad-shouldered woman followed them, shaking a ladle at their backs.

"No dipping into it, now, you laggards," she shouted. "Come back here as soon as you've delivered it!"

When the cook disappeared from view, Loki angled toward the door, easing his way through the garden. As they trailed cautiously in his wake, Thor flexed his shoulders, trying to rid himself of the hard knot of tension glowing like a hot coal between his shoulder blades. He was uneasy with this disguise, and he loathed leaving Mjolnir behind; his heart was urging him to abandon this whole uncertain enterprise and go to his father, to join Odin in open battle against this foe, to neutralize this threat directly.

To prevent any possibility of his brother lifting shackled hands in the face of an  _eldjotun_ prince.

Loki halted, and murmured over his shoulder, "Wait here." And he slipped out of the garden's shadows, toward the open door.

The silent air was broken by a low growl. One of the hounds lying in the stableyard lifted its head, its yellow eyes fixed firmly on Loki's quiet movements. It gathered itself and rose in a tense, muscular movement, trotting toward Loki and pulling its lips back to expose its fangs.

Loki froze, motionless for a moment, and then his voice, low and commanding, said, "None of that,  _hundr._ "

Sif whispered, "The glamour doesn't work on animals?"

Fandral shook his head as the hound lowered its head and followed after Loki, tongue lolling cheerfully, tail waving. "How does he do that?"

Thor grunted. "Loki has always had a way with beasts."

"Yes, I know. He tames them, you smash them, Sif stabs them."

Sif's eyes shifted to him and she murmured coldly, "I do no such thing."

Fandral grinned at her.

Thor watched as Loki slid like a ghost up to the door, and peered around its edge. His thoughts, arrested, replayed Fandral's jest: all through the dark days, the evil days, they had spoken of Loki's place among them as a thing of the past, a dead thing. But Fandral, just now. . .It was as if the gap in their circle were, at least for the moment, filled again. As if the past were alive.

Loki's hand lifted, motioning them forward with a curious, fluid twist. Thor caught a glimpse of Sif's face as she stood from her crouch, and he looked again, startled; her features were blurring and moving, and, by the time she'd straightened fully, she wore a fully different face. A glance at Fandral: new features there, too.

As they joined Loki at the door, his face also changed, Thor gestured at it and raised his brows. Loki smiled.

"Another bit of chicanery. So many faces in the kitchen, coming and going; I borrowed a few of the ones that just went. Come!" and he stepped boldly through the door, walking through the kitchen and out into the hall beyond for all the world exactly like a maidservant bent on an important task.

Sif followed on his heels, and, after a hesitation and a low mutter, Thor as well. The kitchen was crowded with servants, chopping, stirring, lifting, carrying. A great feast indeed was being prepared.

Fandral had stopped to gaze down once more at the hound, lying now by the door, whose tail ceased its friendly thumping when it met Fandral's eyes. A low rumble growled through its chest.

Fandral lifted one hand. "None of that," he assayed, and then stepped back when the hound rose up to its feet, exposing its teeth, growl ratcheting in volume. He realized with a start that the others had disappeared into the kitchen.

With a silent oath he swept through the door, and then stopped, frowning. Servants everywhere, all with unfamiliar faces and the same, plain garb, and he hadn't the faintest clue which of them were his companions.

 _No, there they are_. Three figures moving purposefully out the far door.  _That must be them._

He was passing between a giant cookstove and a chopping counter piled with sliced fruit when a sharp voice called, "You! Dagrun! Come here, girl!"

He halted, rigid, and then slowly pivoted to see the broad-shouldered cook, encased in a voluminous apron, scrutinizing him with a chilly eye.

His mouth opened to say, "Madam?" and then, remembering just in time, snapped shut again. He attempted to curtsey in as maid-like a way as possible; when he raised his head the cook's eyes were flaring in fierce suspicion.

"What are you about, girl? Are you stewed?"

He knew his face was blank with puzzlement; with an effort he crafted a dutiful and eager expression. He raised inquiring brows.

She crossed her arms over her bountiful chest and said, "Are you drunk, girl? Have you been at the mead?"

He shook his head, holding his body as still and small as possible.

 _Odin's Eye!_ , his thoughts scrambled desperately,  _How does a maiden stand, or move?_  In the depths of his mind, he appended several of the vilest curses he knew to Loki's name.  _Why did I let him do this to me?_

The cook glared for a moment, and then strode forward and thrust a small tray into his hands. "I thought I'd already sent you into the feast hall."

He shook his head again.

"Well, no matter. Take this up to the . . . the . . . the  _guest_  in the north tower. She's the only one in this cursed house who's had naught to eat all day."

Fandral took the tray, keeping his eyes lowered as a servant maid would. He didn't attempt another curtsey.

"Well, go then, girl!" the cook said irritably. "And mind you don't drop it on the stairs!"

Fandral spun on his heel and, dodging servants, hurried away, aware every moment of the cook's eyes boring into his back.

The hall beyond was darker, lit only with several small high lamps in niches in the walls. At its far end, a tall archway opened out into an enormous, brightly room, bustling with servants arranging tables. A faint whisper of movement alerted him, and he saw three dark forms in the deepest shadows between two pools of lamplight. He lifted the tray. "Bread? Wine? Anyone?"

Sif's eyes gleamed at him. "You stopped to prepare a light meal?"

Fandral snorted softly. "I was accosted by a cook. She said I must take this tray to a guest in the north tower who's had naught to eat all day."

He felt Loki's sudden stillness.

"Who?" Loki asked.

"A guest in . . .the north tower. . ." Fandral rolled his eyes ceiling-ward. "Lady Sigunn, of course. I should have realized at once."

Loki was regarding the tray with narrowed, furious eyes. " 'Naught to eat all day!' " He repeated the words in a low hiss.

An image danced before his eyes: Sigunn smiling up at him, her hands filled with berries.

_. . .my fragile Idisi body is beginning to pine for food. . ._

Rage filled his belly with sour bile. "They've given her little food. They're deliberately weakening her."

Thor murmured grimly, "Let's find the north tower."

Directly before them a set of large doors beckoned, their broad faces heavily carved and gilded. Thor jerked a thumb at them and said, "This way?"

Loki frowned. "No, I think that might be the room I Walked into . . ."

His words were cut off by a voice, echoing through the large room at the far end of the hall, growing in volume as it neared the arched entrance. "Regardless of your scruples, Theoric, the guests will be arriving soon. . ."

Gyrd Bragasson's voice.

Moving as one, the four of them reached for the door handles. Thor grasped them.

"Locked!" he whispered. He rattled the doors softly. "Barred."

A glance down the darkened hall revealed the old man's figure, silhouetted in the bright archway. He had turned back, presumably to speak further with his son.

"Sif?" Loki murmured urgently. "You know this game."

"I do?" She gave him a quizzical look; he mimicked a sword thrust and a quick lift. She drew her sword, shimmering as it emerged out of the glamour that had cloaked it. She slid it through the slim gap between the doors, and shoved it upward with all her strength. They heard the bar creak on its hinge, and then fall to the side with a thud.

Thor pushed one of the doors open; he followed the others as they slipped silently inside, and he closed it behind them, pausing to retrieve the bar and rotate it carefully back into its brackets. He turned, and stiffened, hand slapping to his side for the absent Mjolnir.

Loki sighed, "Ah, yes. The room I Walked into, which was exceedingly well-stocked with  _eldjotnar_."

They stood in a soaring hall, a huge fireplace in one end with a long table before it. The only light came from a banked fire on the hearth, which threw distorted shadows on all four walls, and over the rank upon rank of fire giants who filled the room, all of them silent and still.

For a tense moment, they waited, a curved blade forming in each of Loki's hands, Sif's sword raised, Fandral gripping the edge of his hidden scabbard, Thor's hands curling into fists. The glamour dropped away from them, as Loki gathered all his waning power back to himself again. But the moment crept past, and none of the hulking forms in the room reacted to their sudden entrance. Loki straightened his shoulders, and twisted the daggers in his hands back into nothingness, and, with a sidelong glance at Thor, who met his eyes and shook his head in puzzlement, he edged his way toward the nearest giant.

Firelight gleamed along the eldjotun's short, curved horns, and, under them, his black eyes looked out of his angular face, dull and unseeing. There was no response as Loki approached, no shifting of the eyelids or tensing of the bulky muscles along the bare shoulders. He might have been a carving, something created out of hard red stone to frighten and horrify the susceptible, except that the deep chest moved slightly, in and out with each slow breath.

Loki glanced at Sif as she joined him, staring up into the harsh, blank face.

"Are they. . .asleep?" she whispered.

He nodded, frowning. "A kind of hibernation, perhaps." He looked back at Thor, whose eyes were sweeping the room, assessing the numbers. "More dwarven magic, I think. It might be prudent for Odin to spend a bit of time contemplating the apparently loving ties between Muspelheim and the dwarves, when this little adventure has concluded."

Thor said, quietly, "There's at least five score of them in here. A formidable force. The first wave of his invasion."

"Their sleep is hiding them from Odin's Sight." Loki walked along the row of silent giants, and then paused beside the long table. "And they've been here for some time."

"How can you tell?"

He ran a finger along the table's surface, scoring a line in the thick dust. "No servant has been in this room, for weeks I would guess."

Fandral was leaning closer, studying the sharply-angled face. "The Halfdanir must have been smuggling them into the city, somehow, one or two at a time."

Sif reached out a hand, toward the wickedly-curved blade belted tightly to the giant's hip. Loki looked up and then strode forward, "I wouldn't. . ."

She nudged it, with the tip of one finger. The black eyes blinked and flared into focus, staring down at her, the face slackening in confusion and astonishment.

". . .touch him."

Loki pulled the horsehead dagger from his belt as he ran toward them. The fire giant's eyes hardened with fury; he reached for his blade, his mouth opening to roar a challenge. Sif whirled, snatched the dagger from Loki's upraised hand, and plunged it upward into the giant's throat. He choked, once, his hands reaching up. And then Fandral's sword ran through his chest, and he grunted, and fell with a room-shaking thud, and lay still.

Loki stood looking down at the  _jotun_ , and then at his empty hand, and then over at Sif, who shrugged wryly.

"Sorry. Heat of the moment," she whispered.

Heavy silence filled the room once more. None of the other giants stirred. Fandral rested a foot against the fallen  _eldjotun's_  chest, and drew out his weapon.

"So these sleeping princesses awaken with a touch," he said, grimacing at the blood on his blade, and then thrusting it back into the scabbard.

"Their prince must plan to rouse them once he has the battlefire." Loki's eyes were scanning the room as he spoke. He pointed, to an alcove on the far side of the room. Within it, a few curving stair steps were visible, the rest disappearing upward into dim shadow.

"This is the north side of the house, and that looks like a tower. Shall we?"

As the others moved to follow him, he added, "Don't touch any  _jotun_  as you go."

Sif crouched down and retrieved the horsehead dagger, and held it out to him. As he accepted it, her fingers touched his briefly; she said, an edge of challenge to her voice, "Except for you, of course."

He quirked a brow at her; none of them had acknowledged the word to his face before. "And one  _jotun_  is very like another?"

She shook her head. "You are like no one else, Loki,  _jotun_  or no."

He heard it for what it was, a deliberate, clear-eyed recognition of the dark days, and a cautious nod to the further past, when all of them had ridden together, following Thor on his various mad quests. He said, lightly, as his eyes studied her, "For which the universe may yet give thanks."

A half-smile, shot his way, as she moved past him toward the steps. "You said it, not I."

Just then, the bar at the door rattled in its brackets; one bracket slid aside with the turn of a key out in the hall, and the bar swung down on its hinge. The tall doors parted. All four of them recognized the engraved vambraces of Theoric's armor above the hands gripping the doors' edges. They saw him pause and turn back into the hall, as his father's voice called out, "Theoric." The  _eldjotun_ prince's rasp roughened the old man's voice.

Without sparing each other a glance, they moved, Thor and Sif behind one door and Loki and Fandral behind the other, as the doors opened wide.

Theoric halted, on the threshold. They heard him breathe out a swift sigh, and then he said, voice raised in evident frustration, "She will not come willingly, and threats will not move her. We've seen that."

Gyrd's voice, and his footsteps, approaching. "Then bind her."

Behind the door, Loki's jaw tightened at the indifferent hardness in the man's tone.

"And how will I explain that, Father? It's a fine thing for a man to walk into his own wedding feast leading his betrothed on a leash!"

A pause. There was a rustle of heavy cloth: a cloak slung over a shoulder. Gyrd said, "We will not bring her as your betrothed. We will tell the Allfather that the pledge must be disavowed; there will be no wedding because we have discovered a great threat to Asgard. And then we will reveal that she bears the battlefire. He will want to see her at once, see her for himself."

A reluctant grunt from Theoric.

"Do as I require. Surely you can see it: her fierce recalcitrance is a gift. I will be able to draw that much closer to Odin by bringing him a threat than I would by asking him to bless a wedding."

"She will fight with everything she has."

"Then I suggest you bind her firmly, my son."

"What if she releases the fire on me?" Unease threaded through his voice.

"She will not. She's weak, and heartsick." Now the sound of leather against skin, a glove being forced over a deformed hand. "Bind her, and stop her mouth. I will wait at the entrance gate, and greet our royal guests. Bring her down into the feast hall when they have all arrived."

"This had better work. . .Prince." Theoric's voice was hard. "The House of Halfdan has sacrificed much."

A pause. The voice that answered was the  _eldjotun's_  own. "And so you will have your reward. . . boy. After I have the fire. After I have struck down the Allfather. Now go and do as I command!"

Gyrd's retreating footsteps echoed out in the hall. An angry fist thumped the door, and then Theoric appeared beyond it, striding rapidly through the ranks of silent  _jotun_  toward the staircase alcove. He took the stairs upward two at a time, and he did not look back.

The four of them emerged from behind the doors, and Sif turned to push them quietly closed. Thor's face was thunderous. "A wedding," he said.

"Which makes perfect sense," said Fandral. "The Allfather always attends the wedding feasts of the nobles."

"No," Thor growled, "It doesn't make sense, because Father knows that much is amiss with the House of Halfdan. That Sigunn rode away with Loki willingly. And now suddenly she is back in the city, and willing to marry Theoric? He will know it is false! He will not believe it."

"But perhaps he's coming here anyway, tonight, to confirm for himself what is amiss with these Halfdanir," Sif said. "He is the Allfather! Who can say what he has Seen?"

Thor spun toward the door, his face set and grim.

"Wait." It was Loki's voice, and, when Thor turned back to him, he saw a green glow in his brother's eyes, a light that he knew well. Loki lifted one hand, tapping his fingers to his chin as he thought.

"Thor," he said slowly, "listen. . ." he pointed to the door; they could all hear the faint voices and laughter of the arriving guests.

"If you attack him now, it will be a great battle, and many lives may be lost. But if you wait. . ."

Thor stirred impatiently. Loki lifted a hand.

"Wait," he said. "I can see a way to do it. We can defeat him utterly, with no blood spilled. Wait until the right moment to strike."

"How will I know?"

Loki grinned, a savage grin. "You will know. Trust me."

"I'm trusting you a great deal, Loki." Thor said. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes."

Thor's eyes studied him closely, studied the growing, dancing light that filled his eyes. Yes, he knew that look.

"All right, then," he said. "Make us appear to be guests. We'll wait in the feast hall."

"You do that," Loki said, turning away. "And I will find Sigunn."

Fandral paused in the act of re-opening the doors. Over his shoulder he said, "What of Theoric? Do you want one of us to come with you?"

Loki's voice came back to them, low and cold. "No need. If that  _sveinn_ dares to face me, I will pin him to the wall with his own sword."

As he disappeared among the sleeping giants, he flicked two fingers back toward them.

Fandral glanced over at Thor, while the glamour blurred his features into someone else entirely.

"I feel, rather strongly" he said, "that today is not a good day to be Theoric Gyrdson. You?"

For the first time in many, many hours, Thor grinned.

"Come," he said, "Let's join the feast."

* * *

Sigunn stood at the small window, as she'd stood for hours, watching the night overtake the day.

 _The sun loses this battle, every evening_ , she thought.  _And yet each morning it rises anew to fight again._

She knew she should take courage from the thought, but she felt too weary to grasp for it.

A click of a key in the locked door behind her, and the creak as it opened. Theoric; she recognized the tread. She didn't feel any need to acknowledge his presence.

"Sigunn. . ." he said, and there was a new, harsh edge to his voice.

She squared her shoulders, her eyes falling to the golden glow of the lamps in the garden, far below. "A lovely night for a wedding," she said, each word frosted with icy disdain.

His footsteps neared, and he grasped her arm above the elbow, turning her toward himself. Slowly, she looked down at his hand, and then over at his other hand, which held a set of leather bindings.

She looked up again at his face, with a pointed contempt so sharp that he flinched, and drew back.

"How difficult it must be for you," she said. "Can you even see the sun from the depths to which you have fallen?"

His face hardened. His hand slid down her arm to grip her wrist, and he lifted the bindings.

And then there was a sudden movement at the door. A small, dark-haired serving maid stood there, her arms clutching a brazen bucket piled high with firestones.

Theoric glared. "Begone, girl. There's no need for you here."

The servant bobbed a swift bow. "Forgive me, my lord, but I was sent to lay a fire. This room is cold."

Theoric turned away. "It matters little. Get on with it."

She slipped into the room, and, as she did, she tilted the bucket just enough that Sigunn could see, among the golden-red firestones, a long, slim, graceful shape: a bronze dagger.

Everything inside her stilled. Her eyes flew to meet the girl's, and she saw there a knowing green glint that stopped her heart, and pulled the air from her lungs, and filled her spirit with unbridled glee.

"Theoric," she said, as he reached for her other wrist. "I hope you are prepared."

Something in her voice stopped him. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

"What?" He frowned. "Prepared for what?"

She smiled at him, a wholehearted smile that kindled an uneasy fire in his belly.

"To meet your fate," she said.

* * *

**_Loki's stratagem in this chapter is my humble little homage to that great mythological tale, "The Theft of Thor's Hammer", in which Loki fakes his way into a giant's house by disguising Thor and himself as maidens. In that case, of course, he dressed Thor up as a bride and himself as a bridesmaid. As an example of Loki's ever-flowing fount of Clever Ideas, it's one of my favorites._ **

**_  
_**


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The power of ancient magic; and the roar of a thousand winter bonfires. . . and also, an inconvenient apple

**Storm's Eye**

**Part 18/20**

_Within the house, where a wedding feast is about to commence..._

"My fate?"

Theoric gripped her wrist more firmly, and stared down into her face, confusion furrowing his brow. He had known this woman for most of his life, and for all of hers, and yet her eyes were strange to him, the hot contempt flaring around the iris like the corona of a sun. Its scornful heat ignited an angry flare in his own eyes. For a moment the room was silent save for his harsh indrawn breath; over by the hearth, there was a soft clinking rattle of firestones as the servant girl lowered her bucket to the floor.

Theoric angled a savage glance at the girl, and then turned his back to the fireplace, pulling Sigunn abruptly closer and leaning down to whisper angrily, "My fate is to rule in Asgard; that has always been the fate of the Halfdanir." He lifted one of the leather bindings and began to wrap it, tightly, around her wrist.

Beyond him, Sigunn could see the servant, crouching at the hearth and reaching into her bucket. A sidelong glance flickered out from under her eyelids, assessing the room and its contents, and then the eyes found Sigunn's, and the cool calculation flashed into something much warmer, and the corner of the mouth turned up in a tiny smile. Sigunn felt the warmth of that glance in the depths of her belly. She knew those eyes.

She turned her gaze back to Theoric, and squared her shoulders for battle.

"Rule? Here in Asgard?" Deliberately she colored her tone with thick layers of disdain. "When the  _eldjotun_  prince has slain the Allfather, and subjugated the city, and presented the Realm as a pretty package for his king? No doubt I am very dull of vision, Theoric, but I see no place in that picture for the House of Halfdan."

Theoric looked quickly over his shoulder at the servant girl, who was building a pyramid of firestones in the hearth. He snapped, "Be silent, Sigunn."

Behind him, the servant girl's hands stilled for a moment.

Theoric bent closer, so that his breath stirred the hair around Sigunn's face. She drew back from him, her eyes narrowed, as he hissed, "The new king of Asgard has sworn to give us sole rule of all the Southern Marches. It will be our own kingdom."

She raised both brows, her eyes bright with derision. "Oh, yes, and surely he will keep that oath. Surtur being such an honorable creature."

His eyes blazed. "He will. The oath between Halfdan and Muspelheim is ancient and enduring, and the reward long time coming!"

"A long history with a serpent does not make it any less treacherous," she said, and then she shrugged dismissively. "But perhaps the Halfdanir have always been comfortable in the company of treachery."

He clamped his mouth shut, the muscles in his neck taut with fury, and gave the binding a vicious tug. Sigunn gasped involuntarily as the edges bit into her skin.

The servant girl's head turned slowly, the eyes dark, colder than Yggdrasil's furthest branches. Silently, she rose to her feet.

Theoric grasped Sigunn's forearm, and began to wind the leather binding around her other wrist. She looked up, past the straining muscles in his shoulder as he coiled the leather tighter, and met the servant girl's eyes. Then she thrust her fingers forward, and twisted them through the ends of the thin straps as they dangled below his fist, and threw herself back, pulling with all her strength.

Jerked forward by her momentum, he staggered, releasing his hold on her. She darted out of his way, but his flailing hands struck her shoulder, and caught her arm. As he swung her around, and spun around himself, regaining his feet, he found himself facing the point of a long, slim dagger.

His head snapped upward in shock. The dagger was grasped in the hand of the small serving maid. She smiled, and said, "It seems to me that a would-be king should conduct himself with more . . . chivalry. Unhand the lady, if you please."

Theoric stiffened, his face reddening with rage; his arm flew up to slap the dagger away, but his hand was caught in a grip startlingly strong. The eyes flashed brilliantly green, the figure before him wavered, suffused for a moment in a hazy glow, and then he was facing, not a humble servant, but the black prince himself, and there was no longer any smile on his face.

"The lady," he said, his voice dangerously low.

Theoric's eyes widened and then tightened into angry slits, the muscles in his forearm straining against Loki's grip. With a grunt, he shoved Sigunn to the side, wrenched his hand away, and drew his sword. As he swung it upward, the black prince stepped back and conjured a second long dagger into his other hand. He brought them together above Theoric's blade, and blocked the upward strike with a ringing clash, and then drove them down, pushing the blade away. Theoric fell back, the point of his sword scraping against the floor.

Sigunn found herself stumbling forward, catching her balance with a hand against the hearth. The brazen bucket stood there, still half full; amongst the firestones, the windswept mane on the horsehead dagger gleamed at her. She stooped quickly, a small breath escaping her, and she felt her heart lift as her fingers closed over the hilt. She shoved it into her belt, and then hefted the bucket, her eyes following the lethal dance before her, sword and daggers slicing the air in gleaming arcs.

They circled, eyes intent for any opening. The sword's greater reach should have given Theoric the dominant hand, but he could not seem to press his advantage home. Always the daggers were there, flicking the sword's point away, capturing the flat of the blade and forcing it upward, or down to the floor. He'd never battled the black prince, not on any training field; he had sneered, privately, at Prince Loki's preference for the dagger and the staff. Now, in the back of his mind, he began to wonder if that were not a serious omission.

And then a stroke went wide, by the merest fraction. Theoric felt it, bending his wrist a trifle too far, the sword's edge sliding past Loki's shoulder as he twisted easily to one side. He whipped the blade back, awkwardly, and then leaped to the side to avoid a slashing thrust from the dagger in Loki's left hand.

As he did, Sigunn tilted the bucket in her hands, and flung all of the firestones out, scattered and rolling across the floor.

They caught under Theoric's boot heels, and he stumbled badly, scrambling, arms thrashing. The sword fell from his fingers with a metallic crash, just as Loki lifted one booted foot and kicked him squarely in the chest; he cannoned backward against the wall.

Sigunn darted forward and scooped up the sword, and, in the same motion, tossed it, hilt first, to Loki. He snagged it by the hilt, and flipped it upward, catching it again overhand, and threw it like a spear.

Theoric had flattened both palms against the wall, levering himself upward. He looked up just in time to see the sword come flying toward him, a sleek silver missile. It pierced the thick fabric of his cloak where it attached to his shoulder, and buried itself deeply in the beam of the wall behind, the force of its passage slamming Theoric's head back with a ringing thud.

For a moment, the thrumming vibration of the sword was the only sound in the room. Theoric's eyes, wide and staring, slid down to the side and focused unsteadily on the sword's still humming blade, so close, so very close to his throat. He swallowed thickly.

Loki allowed himself one glance at Sigunn, one breath, because his heart demanded a small measure of assurance that she was well. His eyes took in her creased and filthy tunic, its neck open to reveal the strong line of her collarbone, the bones more prominent than they'd been the last time he'd seen her. Days of brutal travel and little food had carved deep shadows under her eyes, and dulled the fiery glow of her hair; her skin was pale. But her dark eyes were alive with joy, as her shoulders lifted and fell with a sigh of relief, and the welcoming warmth in her face edged past his ebbing battle-rage and pulled an answering warmth up from the depths of his heart.

She was well.

_Despite all your efforts to the contrary, Theoric Gyrdson. You will answer for it._

He turned to the man struggling vainly to pull himself away from the wall, and his face hardened, glacially cold.

"I told my companions, down below," he said, walking slowly forward, "that I would pin you to the wall with your own sword." He stopped a pace away, and observed Theoric dispassionately, as if he were a hunting trophy mounted above the hearth of some great hall.

"And I am, as you see, a man of my word."

Theoric spit out, "You are a liar and a coward and a traitor!"

"Liar?," Loki answered. "Yes, there are many who would agree with you. Coward? Mmmm, no, not that I recall. Traitor?" He shook his head. "You have no cause to be so generous with me, Halfdanir. There is no need to bestow on me a title which is much better suited to you yourself."

Theoric's face twisted, "I am no traitor."

"No? Well, perhaps that's true, from a certain point of view. If your loyalty, and the loyalty of the House of Halfdan, has always been to . . . a different sovereign ."

"I don't serve Surtur! I am loyal to my House alone. What I have done has been for the honor of..." Theoric's words were abruptly cut off, and all his breath expelled from his lungs, as Loki's grip was suddenly on his throat, the heel of his hand against Theoric's windpipe. Theoric twisted, and coughed, but the brutal pressure remained.

He heard the silken voice say in his ear, "And what of your honor, Halfdanir? You say that you have acted for the honor of your House, but where is the honor in binding and slaying a strong and valiant lady, a lady that as her betrothed you were sworn to protect? You would have instead delivered her to slaughter. For your honor? What is in that word honor?"

He leaned closer, and whispered, "Only empty air."

He released his hand, and Theoric could breathe again, but now there was a razor-sharp blade, its edge pressing itself against Theoric's throat as he choked and sputtered.

"Your honor, as you call it, is greed and avarice." Loki's voice was low, almost pleasant. "But I will tell you, Theoric Gyrdson, that I have known this lady for only the smallest fraction of the time that you have, and yet I will also tell you that, when I consider the fate that you have planned for her; when I think of your greedy eyes upon her as she grew from infant to child to woman, knowing all the while that she was a living sacrifice to the Halfdanir lust for power; when I realize that the inestimable value of her life means less to you than the mud you would scrape off your boot heel; when I contemplate all of that, do you know what my  _honor_  would have me do?"

Theoric said nothing; his face had paled, and the whites of his eyes showed as he struggled not to stare down past his own cheekbones to the dagger pressed unwaveringly against the pounding artery in his neck.

"No? No guesses? Why, then, let me tell you that I'd like to revert to the most ancient of Asgard's warrior codes, and cut out your heart, and eat it off the point of my dagger."

Theoric's eyes bulged. He stared into Loki's eyes, and he believed every word.

"But I will not. Because that would be. . .uncivilized." He smiled then, at the sagging relief in Theoric's face. "And because I feel that you have things you might like to tell us."

The edge of the knife pivoted, a tiny fraction. The skin parted just enough to allow a few beads of blood to swell against the dark metal of the blade. Theoric swallowed. His face was waxen. He whispered, "What things?"

Loki's voice was low and sharp as the edge of his blade. "You and your father have been smuggling the enspelled  _eldjotnar_  into the city?"

"A few at a time."

"With the understanding that they would be awakened by the fire prince when the time was ripe? What would awaken them?"

"A touch..."

The blade's pressure increased. "Yes, I know that. But there is more. Don't be a fool, now, son of Gryd. Tell me what else will awaken them."

Theoric was cringing his neck away from the cold caress of the dagger. "The fire. Once he had the fire, he would sweep the room and awaken them all at once."

"Ah, yes, and then take advantage of the chaos and terror caused by his attack on Odin. And strike at Asgard's forces in the palace with his own freshly-roused army. Yes?"

"Yes, damn you."

"How does he plan to attack Odin? What were you meant to do, after you bound Sigunn and escorted her to the feast hall?"

I . . ." Theoric's eyes were burning with hatred, but the dagger had taught him fear. He hesitated, his nostrils flaring, and Loki tilted his head to one side and regarded him with cold amusement. "You're doing so well," he said. "Don't falter now,  _sveinn_ ; the game is not quite complete."

He slid the dagger higher, forcing Theoric to lift his chin to avoid it. "Speak wisely, Halfdanir. Answer me. How does he plan to strike at Odin?"

"It was supposed to be a wedding; the Allfather always attends the weddings of the nobles. My father arranged this feast as soon as we reached the city early this morning, and a message arrived from the palace two hours ago, saying that Odin would attend."

"And the hurried nature of this event didn't give him pause?"

Theoric grimaced. "I do not know the Allfather's mind! I only know that he agreed to come."

"Along with the guests. The nobles of the court?"

Despite the knife at his throat, a flicker of pride animated Theoric's eyes, for a moment. "The House of Halfdan commands respect, and most of the nobles will be here tonight. They will not refuse the invitation, even with only a half-day's notice."

Loki slanted a glance at Sigunn, who was watching, face set. "He plans to destroy not only the king but the nobles as well," she said.

"Yes. What better way to slay a giant," Loki's eyes returned to Theoric's face, "than to cut off its head? With no king and its court in chaos, the city would fall."

A sneer twisted Theoric's lips. "Leaving only one final obstacle to absolute rule."

"Obstacle?" Loki's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You speak of Thor?"

"I certainly don't speak of you, Liesmith! Because you will be  _ended_."

Loki chuckled, shaking his head. "If you're seeking to frighten me, that's hardly the way to go about it. I'm quite aware of your slavemaster's hatred of me." He looked over at Sigunn, who raised a brow. "And the reason for it."

"But, while this is all highly diverting, you haven't answered my question. Wedding or no, how does he plan to strike at the Allfather? Third time I've asked you, Theoric. I won't ask again." He tilted the blade, and Theoric felt the cold bite of its edge under the line of his jaw.

"I'm to take her into the hall, and reveal her as the fire-bearer. The courtiers will panic, and exclaim, and mill about, and in the confusion I will bring her close to the Allfather. My father will take her other arm, and, when we've drawn near to Odin, the fire prince will. . .do what he must. And when he has secured the battlefire he will strike Odin down. The battlefire is an ancient magic, older than the Allfather himself. In the  _eldjotun's_  hands it will be an unassailable weapon."

" 'Would have been", Theoric. 'Would have been.' In case you have failed to notice, the situation is somewhat altered."

"It matters not! You cannot battle him; he is infinitely stronger than you! When I do not appear in the feast hall, he will seek me out. He will find her, and he will destroy you!"

Loki shrugged. "That remains to be seen."

Then he lifted the dagger and gestured with it directly in front of Theoric's eyes. "Sigunn, this man sought to bind you and haul you before the court of Asgard, denounce you as a threat to the city, and then give you over to a regicidal fire giant, who incidentally wants to kill me."

"Foolish of him."

"Which 'him', Theoric or the fire giant?"

"Both."

"Oh, indeed. So how shall we chastise this fool, and teach him the folly of his ways?"

The leather bindings were still wrapped around Sigunn's wrists. She began to unwind them now, their edges wet and bloodstained where they'd cut deeply into her skin. Loki watched her, his jaw growing taut; when she held them up and let them dangle from her fingers, he said grimly, "Let us follow his father's advice, and bind him tightly."

He reached forward and pried the sword out of the wall, and tossed it aside, the dagger still lodged firmly under Theoric's chin. Then he twisted a fist into the fabric of Theoric's cloak, and pulled him over to the room's sole chair, and pushed him down into it. Regarding him coldly, he said, "You've been very forthright, Halfdanir. I thank you for your. . . cooperation."

Sigunn slipped behind the chair, and knotted the leather around Theoric's wrists. She looked up over his shoulder and gave Loki a quizzical smile. "Cooperation?"

A swift, inscrutable look crossed Loki's face, half amusement and half pain. "Someone said that to me once. In a rather different context." He conjured another set of leather straps, and crouched down to bind Theoric's ankles to the chair legs.

"A . . . Midgardian context?" she asked.

His hands hesitated for a moment, in their work, and then he looked at her, and allowed himself to accept the compassion in her eyes.

"My songs of Midgard are not joyous ones, but I'll sing them for you, Sigunn, when all of this is done."

She smiled. "All the more reason to finish it quickly."

In the chair between them, Theoric snarled, "Could you not conduct this courtship some other place, out of my sight!"

Loki tightened a final knot and stood. "If you insist," he said, his eyes glinting with dark humor.

But Sigunn stood and looked down at him, this young man she had known all her life, and sorrow molded the planes of her face.

"Theoric. How could you do this? Betray your king? Give me up to death?"

Theoric refused to meet her eyes. "You didn't have to die!" he burst out, after a sullen moment. "He didn't ever desire that! If you would only have submitted to him, and joined with him. . .!"

Sigunn's brow creased. "What?"

"He has always been enamored of you! Hel only knows why! He is blind where you are concerned."

Sigunn stared at him, and echoing up from memory's vault she heard the  _eldjotun's_  voice, hissing from between Sif's lips in the dim light of Odin's stables. She felt again the trickle of her own blood along her hairline.

_Sigunn, asta. . ._

Loki's face was arrested in sudden thought, and she knew he was sharing the same vision.

Slowly, she repeated, "Blind. . .?"

Theoric's eyes shifted to Loki and blazed with sudden fury, and he spit out, "As if a maiden of Asgard could ever love a  _jotun_! Any kind of  _jotun_!"

Loki's eyes flickered to Sigunn's face; she was studying Theoric as if she'd never seen him before. "The eldjotun did not seek to slay me? Then how would he take the fire?"

Theoric looked away, his eyes suddenly haunted, the eyes of someone who knows he has said one sentence too many.

She turned, meeting Loki's gaze, a dawning understanding lighting her face from within. "He wanted me to join him. To join  _with_  him. He said it, repeatedly, during these last three days."

Her eyes darkened, then, and her face grew stony; the memory of that terrible ride wrapping itself around her heart like a stifling blanket of cold, wet wool: the never-ending pounding of the horse's strides, her bound wrists aching as she tried to grip the pommel, Theoric's arms holding her, and the  _eldjotun's_  voice issuing from his mouth: murmuring, whispering, cajoling.

_Join with me. You must join with me. And then you will live. You could rule with me. . ._

Loki reached out a hand and rested it along her throat, a warm anchor, the edge of his thumb stroking a curl she had tucked behind her ear. She bit her lip, eyes abstracted and distant, as she tried to recall exactly the words that the hated voice had spoken. She looked up into his face and said, "I thought he wanted me to wield the fire for him, to be his Victory-Bringer. I thought he meant that he would spare my life only if I would do so. And I refused, as so many of my mothers have before me. I said, over and over, that I would never give him the fire, that I would never wield it for him."

Loki nodded. "But he meant something else entirely?"

"Yes." She glanced down at Theoric, and he looked away, staring at the floor. A muscle in his jaw flexed in agitation. Then she let out a breath, and smiled a little shakily at Loki, and murmured, "How could I not have known?" She shook her head. "There was no one to teach me, not really, about what the fire can do."

Loki was watching her, frowning as he sought to follow her thoughts. She reached out and took his hand.

"Loki. . ."

He raised a brow.

"We need to leave this room. We need. . . air."

He grinned, another brow lifting to join the first. "Do we?"

She smiled back, and it was a smile full of portent, a smile that embraced the coming chaos with as much fervor as he did himself. He felt a glowing coal of unexpected anticipation ignite itself in his belly.

She said, "An abundance of air."

"Why air?"

"To give the fire room to breathe."

Theoric's eyes closed, his face slackening in defeat. Loki spared him the smallest glance, his eyes fixed on Sigunn's face.

"Are you planning to unleash a fire, Sigunn?" he asked, eyes gleaming.

"We are," she answered.

Theoric's head lifted, and he hissed out, "May it consume you both! You deserve no less, a  _jotun_  and his. . ."

Loki lifted one hand, two fingers pointed at Theoric's face, wincing as he called up a surge of power strong enough to rattle his chains; Theoric's words abruptly halted, choked off by the silver muzzle that suddenly covered his mouth and jaw.

A smile tinged with irony stretched Loki's lips, as he waved a hand in Theoric's direction.

"I find it strangely satisfying," he said, "to see that device clamped on someone else's face."

Sigunn quirked a brow at him. "Each man must find his pleasures where he may."

His smile widened. "I have many pleasures."

"Let us find the roof of this tower," she answered, "and I'll show you one more."

They abandoned Theoric to his solitary feasting on defeat's bitter bread, and found, behind a small arched door, a narrow spiraling staircase leading upward. At its top, a heavy square trapdoor: Loki pushed it open with a grunt, and then climbed out and turned to give Sigunn his hand. Above them, the sky was pulsing with starlight, and below, far below, the courtyard was filled with light and voices, and the small figures of wedding guests entering the house. Loki thought of Thor and Sif and Fandral, wandering grimly amongst the nobles in the feast hall; he could feel the slight pull of energy that maintaining their glamour required, and he smiled sourly, wondering if Fandral had found something to eat.

Which triggered another thought.

He lifted Sigunn's hand, and passed his other hand over it, fingers curved. A round apple appeared on her palm, its glossy skin reflecting the starlight.

She looked down at it, and then raised bemused eyes to his face. He leaned closer, his eyes roving over the shadows under her cheekbones and the pallor in her face, and he said, "Fuel for the fire."

She laughed, and said, "I thank you, my lord. I  _am_  feeling a certain. . . emptiness inside."

Loki spread out both hands, and turned a full circle. "Also, this would appear to be a sufficient amount of air, my lady. Never let it be said that I do not aim to please."

She took a large bite from the apple and said, rather indistinctly, "I would never say so."

His hands dropped, and he stood silently, his gaze on her face. She was here, alive and unharmed; the realization rose up like a wave, and he allowed it to wash over him, for the first time since he'd watched with helpless fury as the  _eldjotun_  carried her away. Without another thought, he crossed the short distance between them and took her into his arms, one hand pressing her close, sliding, softly insistent, along the small of her back, and the other curled around the nape of her neck. She looked up at him, her mouth full of apple, her eyes alight.

He grinned down at her, and shook his head regretfully. "An excellent place, but still not quite the right time. Are you almost finished with that, perhaps?"

She swallowed the mouthful, and held up the half-eaten apple. They both regarded it solemnly.

He leaned closer, and whispered against her ear, "How tragic to be thwarted in my purposes by such a small thing."

She laughed. He heard the crunch and felt her jaw move as she bit off another chunk. Her skin was warm against his cheek, and he could sense the quickening tempo of the heartbeat behind her ear; he tilted his head further, and kissed it, the thud of her heart pulsing against his lips.

She'd stopped chewing. One of her hands was sliding up his chest, fingers spread.

He lifted his head. "Finish it. You need it."

She let the apple's core fall to the floor. "I've had sufficient. Perhaps. . . I need you more."

"Oh, but Theoric insists that a maiden of Asgard cannot love a  _jotun_."

"How fortunate," she said, shifting her gaze with an effort from his lips to his eyes, "that I am not a maiden of Asgard. I am Sigunn Idisi. I am free to love any  _jotun_  I choose."

He raised one brow. "Any _jotun_?"

She pursed her lips in mock thought, eyes sliding to the side. ". . . given the range of choice before me. . ."

He laughed.

But her face softened, and she reached up and traced the hollow of his throat with her fingertips. "Well," she said softly, "not just. . .any  _jotun._ "

A shout from the stableyard below echoed up around them, then, and they both glanced over the side of the tower, to see an enormous horse entering the courtyard, the only horse in all the Realms with eight legs rather than four.

Loki sighed, "And at such a moment, the king chooses to arrive. Truly, I am defeated by an apple and Sleipnir's need for a dramatic entrance."

He pulled away, slightly, and looked down into her face. "Whatever fire you've got in mind, my lady, now is the time. Tell me what you're thinking."

With a determined tug, Sigunn brought her mind back from the electric contemplation of his touch, his nearness, the light in his eyes, the intoxicating effect of being in his presence.

"I think. . .Loki, the  _eldjotnar_  have studied the Idisi for centuries, waiting for an opportunity to take the battlefire for their own. Always watching, coveting it, longing for the opportunity to come. They know the battlefire's power. I believe they know it better than I."

"In what way?" His hand slid down along the curve of her shoulder.

Her eyes studied his, and he watched, fascinated, as a light began to grow in them, a sparkle of fire around the black pool of the iris. She said, her voice lowering, "He wanted me to join with him. I thought he meant to stand with him, to wield the fire for him. But what if. . .Loki, what if he meant it literally?"

Loki's face hardened. "A literal union?"

"Yes. A joining of the battlefire with his own fire, his own power. Surging together in some sort of overwhelming maelstrom. That would be a weapon formidable enough to strike down the Allfather himself."

"That's true."

"You see? I think he knew that the battlefire could be more than a weapon, if the wielder chose to make it so. He meant that its power could be given away. That it could be . . . shared."

Understanding flared in his eyes, matching the fire in hers. Her eyes were glowing now, flickering with the battlefire's internal heat. She reached up, slipping her hand around the back of his neck; her palm warm against his skin.

She murmured, her eyes never leaving his, "And the battlefire is a great magic."

"Powerful," he agreed. He traced the line of her neck with the backs of his fingers.

"Ancient. Older than Odin himself, and so, perhaps. . .."

"Perhaps. . ." His hand cradled her cheek, his thumb caressing her cheekbone, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

"Perhaps. . ." she whispered against his lips, "perhaps even more powerful than Odin's chains."

And then she kissed him. He pulled her tight against his body, his hand sliding around her neck and burying itself in her hair; he deepened the kiss into a hungry meeting of lips and teeth and tongue. A deep roaring, the bass-voiced chorus of a thousand winter bonfires, filled his ears and rumbled through his chest. He felt the fire caressing him, enfolding him, but most of all he felt the warmth of her body in his arms, the hunger in her kiss that matched his own, her spirit opening itself to him.

He knew that he was standing in the midst of a column of fire, but he felt no fear. The fire's fierce energy settled over him, and into him, soaking down into the sinews and bones, and further still, into the deepest corners of his heart. The fire found the chains, their venomed links embedded deeply in the scars of his spirit, and heated them until they glowed, orange-gold. They hummed and writhed in protest, and then, with a rending, groaning crack, they shattered into innumerable tiny pieces, each one glowing like a spark rising from a brazen hearth. For a moment they lingered there, in a cloud about him, and then, one by one, they faded, and winked out, and were gone.

With a thunderous gasp, the battlefire wrapped itself once more around them, and then disappeared in a swirl of red-tinted smoke.

Loki lifted his head, and looked down into her eyes, and smiled as their fire faded and they returned to their usual warm darkness.

"Lady," he said, "I am unchained." He held out one hand and stared at it, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.

She smiled. "Let your friends rejoice and your enemies beware."

For a moment his eyes were shadowed. "I don't believe there will be general rejoicing."

"I've already observed that the Asgardians are fools." 

"But as for the enemies. . ." he was still holding her close, and his arm tightened as he looked down at her. "I suspect that the time has come for us to make a fire."

She raised one brow. "Here? And I thought that only happened when two travel together in the wilderness."

He laughed. "Not that kind of fire." His eyes kindled as he bent his head and murmured into her ear, "That, my lady, is for later."

"Oh, of course." A slight flush mantled her cheek.

"But for now, since, indeed the throne of Asgard is at stake, and since I cannot have this cursed  _eldjotun_  prince wandering amuck through the Realm. . ."

She smiled, "He is terribly inconvenient, after all."

"Terribly."

"Long outstayed his welcome."

"Indeed. But he is a visiting royal, and thus all the common courtesies must be extended. Court protocol, you know. His needs and wants must be satisfied."

"Oh, really?"

"Oh, yes. And what does he want most?"

"The fire."

He stepped back. In the glowing starlight, his body blurred and changed. She blinked, and when she focused on him again, he was wearing Theoric's armor, and Theoric's face looked back at her, and grinned with Loki's grin. He held out a hand.

"Let's go and give it to him."

* * *

_**This chapter contains a line blatantly stolen from Shakespeare. Obviously I have no shame-let's just pretend it's a small tribute to Tom Hiddleston, even though the line in question was not spoken by Prince Hal.** _

**_  
_**


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frost and flame. . .

_**Storm's Eye** _

_**Part 19** _

_In the Feast Hall of the House of Halfdan . . ._

Tables ringed the richly-tiled floor, and a longfire burned in the center, a tribute to the much larger fire that illuminated the feast hall of Odin's palace. Along the north wall, as in every noble hall in Asgard, a table of honor stood atop a raised dais, laden with trenchers of artfully arranged fruit and bread. From the ceiling hung enormous chandeliers, polished metal cast in the shape of many branching antlers; hundreds of small lamps glowed among the branches, moving slightly in the evening breeze that sidled in through the open door. The courtly guests drifted about the room in ever-shifting clusters: minnows in a large pond, circulating around the bigger fish. Their sidelong glances flickered toward the door, awaiting the arrival of their host, and his son the groom, and the bride who was central to this hastily-arranged wedding feast.

The murmuring sank into respectful silence when two guards swept through the arched entry, taking up positions on either side. The distinctive yellow cloaks of the king's Bodyguard fell back from the shoulders as each thumped fist to chest in salute, and Odin Allfather stood in the doorway, his stern eye surveying the room.

He acknowledged the bows and graces directed his way with a curt nod. His face, expressionless, concealed a mind that was shaded with troubled musings. He'd received this invitation with a puzzled frown, earlier that day, his thoughts immediately receding to the ugly scene in the throne room, and Theoric's strident voice accusing Loki of stealing his betrothed.

_. . . he has taken her!_

Taken her . . .the same maiden that the Sight had shown him, astride a giant red horse, encircled by Loki's arms. The same maiden of whom he'd sent Thor in pursuit. Days ago.

His fingers itched suddenly, for Gungnir's familiar staff. It would have been a serious breach of custom to bring a spear into a wedding feast, where the only weapon present was the ceremonial sword presented by the husband to his new wife, but now he wished, very strongly, that he had ignored tradition. There was a feeling of deep uneasiness stirring throughout this House.

He glanced to the side then, as Frigga joined him, one hand smoothing from her skirts the disorder caused by even so short a ride. She wore a gentle smile as she inclined her head to receive the courtiers' greetings, but it did not reach her eyes, and thin lines of distress had impressed themselves on either side of her mouth. She raised her gaze to meet his, and his lips tightened: shared memory shadowed both their faces.

_She is standing before her loom, head to one side, contemplating the stylized runes along the border. They are flat, uninteresting. Hardly surprising, she thinks. My mind is so strongly pulled elsewhere._

_A movement at the door; she looks up to see her husband, and foreboding fills her heart at the grim frown between his brows. Wordlessly, he hands her a square of parchment, marked with a seal, ostentatiously large, which she recognizes at once: the firewyrm of the House of Halfdan. She snatches it, her eyes sweeping its message in less than a moment._

_"A wedding . . . young Theoric and Lady Sigunn? But she was with. . ."_

_She lifts her eyes to Odin and he nods._

_"What has happened to Loki?" She is already pushing past him._

_Odin catches her arm. When she pauses, reluctantly, her face stiff, he says, "It will not serve, Frigga. We have sought them daily and seen nothing."_

_"You saw the fire, on the mountaintop."_

_"Nothing since then."_

_She shakes her head. "I must try. We must try. We must know! What could have happened? Where are they? Why is Sigunn returned without them?"_

_His head is bent, his eye glazed with the same uncertain worry that fills her heart. Without a word, he releases her arm, and she walks, with a stately grace that belies her roiling mind, to the Throne Room. To the Hlidskjalf._

_When Odin climbs to her side, she is rigid, staring off into the distance, her fingers white as she grips the edge of the Seat. She turns bleak eyes to him._

_"What did you see? Did you see them?" He hears the rough edge in his own voice._

_Her voice is low. "I demanded it show me Loki. But instead, all I saw . . ."_

_Her voice trails away. He leans closer, his hand moving to her shoulder._

_She whispers, "Shifting images. Chaos. I saw a whirling fire, and a stone floor. A strange, bronze dagger." She frowned, shaking her head in defeat. "An apple. A vibrating sword, and then Theoric Gyrdson's face. . ."_

_She drops her head into her hands. "But nothing of Loki. Just as before. Nothing."_

_She reaches up and covers his hand with her own, and he turns his hand to grasp her cold fingers._

She lifted her hand now and laid it on his arm; he could feel, through the rich fabric of his sleeve, that the chill had not left it.

They waited, for their host to greet them, but Gyrd Bragasson did not appear. An uneasy mutter rippled among the guests. After a moment, with a swift exchange of glances with Frigga, and a slight lifting of her shoulders, Odin strode into the room, escorting the queen toward her seat at the High Table, accepting the bent necks and lowered eyes as they passed. As he handed Frigga into her tall-backed chair, his eye was caught by one of the guests: a tall, slim young man, with a fussily-trimmed beard and a garishly-ornamented tunic: the usual sort of court dandy. The sort, in fact, that Odin would have allowed his eye to pass swiftly over, except that he had never seen this youth before, and the youth was staring straight at him with hot, impatient eyes, and none of the deference that would ordinarily be shown a king.

A servant approached, and offered the queen a cup of wine with a deep bow. When she turned to Odin, he shook his head, shortly, his eye following the young man. He was slipping forward, through the crowd, as talk and laughter and music once more filled the room, moving with an unswerving purposefulness.

The servant shifted her feet, bringing herself once more into Odin's line of sight. He focused on her, frowning, lifting one hand to again refuse the cup, but he paused. Her mouth was quirked in a half-smile that seemed very familiar; her dark eyes demanded his attention, and when he gave it, shifted insistently toward the crowd, where the young man had made his way to the closest edge of the dais.

Odin's frown deepened. He glanced from the servant, who produced a tiny nod, to the young man. Slowly, he descended the first step from the dais, and no more, his face stern.

The young man allowed the movement of the crowd to press him closer.

"Father, " he hissed.

There had been very few moments in the life of Odin Allfather when he had found himself genuinely taken aback, but this was such a one. He blinked, and peered more closely at this importunate youth. There was no mistaking the voice.

"Thor?" he murmured. Beneath the surprise echoing through his mind, a surge of relief welled up. For, though undoubtedly occasioned by some deeply ominous adventure, such a disguise as this could only have been manufactured by . . .

"Where is your brother?" He bent closer, his lips barely moving as he spoke.

The young man leaned forward as well, his eyes burning with impatience. "He went after . . . Oh, curse it all! I can't let him lay eyes on me! Beware him, Father!"

And before Odin could say another word, he twisted away and disappeared amongst the milling crowd clustered near the wine tables. The servant girl melted silently away, sliding behind a large corner pillar at the far end of the dais.

_What? Beware who? Beware Loki?_

Fear spilled through his mind in a dark wave. What had Loki done? Where was he?

Odin turned to see what had provoked both Thor and the servant's hasty retreat, and saw his host hurrying toward him, face carefully arranged in angles of distress.

"My lord!" he exclaimed as he drew near, bowing deeply. "Please forgive me for not greeting you at the door! My house rejoices in your presence here! And the queen, of course!" He quickly bent the neck to Frigga.

Odin inclined his head in response, his eye weighing the man with flat suspicion.

"A wedding is always an occasion for rejoicing," he said. "Is it not?"

Gyrd's eyes flashed strangely, but he said, smoothly, "Of course. Why should it be anything else?"

* * *

Silently, they moved through the ranks of motionless  _eldjotun_ , aiming for the door, the hallway, the feast hall, the battle.

Loki's veins thrummed with power, and Sigunn's hand was warm in his. He felt the tug of her arm as she paused, and he looked down at her, the euphoria of freedom gleaming in his eyes; she was gazing up into one of the blank faces.

"A whole army, frozen here, dreaming of nothing."

Loki pursed his lips, surveying the room. "Impressive, yes? And I know how you are impressed by  _jotnar_."

"Only certain  _jotnar_. Only one, really."

"Of course. And rightly so."

She smiled. But her face sobered as she said, gesturing at the silent figure, "Look at him. To his king, he is only a tool. A weapon to be used up, and then discarded."

His thumb slid along the back of her hand. "As you are not, Sigunn."

"No. But will Asgard agree with you, when they learn what I am? Will the Allfather? My grandmother had good reason, perhaps, to bid me keep the battlefire hidden."

Loki gazed down at her, silent. He knew, as no one else, that there were, for such questions, no reassuring answers he could give.

She shook her head, and squared her shoulders. "That is not the problem at hand, however."

"Alas, no. The problem at hand awaits us in the feast hall. With a certain degree of eagerness, no doubt."

"Well, far be it from us to keep his lordship prince of Muspelheim waiting."

"And to that intent . . ." He held up one hand, and a new set of leather bindings shimmered into being. He stared down at them, and his mouth twisted with distaste. "His father commanded Theoric to bind you . . ."

He lifted one of her hands; his fingertips touched the red, inflamed ridges that marked where her wrists had been bound before. His face hardened, and he said, "I should have killed him."

"Oh, but he was so very helpful."

"Even so."

He wrapped the binding around her wrist, once, twice, and then his hands stilled. She ducked her head, to look up into his averted face, and he met her eyes, and said, "I cannot do this."

He had never feared the battle, not even as an untried youth. Always he had approached it, not with zeal, as Thor did, but with an underlying careless delight in the mayhem, in the spur-of-the-moment grasping of the shifting battlefield, in the execution of lightning-fast patterns of thought and strategy. Battle was a feast for the mind. His brother reveled in the battle's physicality, in the roar and thrust, but Loki relished the battle as a puzzle to be solved, a maze to be negotiated, to come out on the other side with an enemy beneath his heel, out-maneuvered and out-thought. Battle was the perilous edge of chaos negotiated with the lightest of feet, unburdened with the heavy weight of fear.

But not today. Today he feared. Because today the battle risked the life of Sigunn Vidardottir. Victory-Bringer.

_What if she is lost? What if the risk is too great?_

She held out her wrists. "It's the only course. The only way that we can destroy him utterly."

He nodded, his mouth set in a tight line. "I know."

He finished binding her wrists. Then he said, a savage edge sharpening his voice, "The old man told him to stop your mouth as well, damn him. And it will have to be real, Sigunn. It can't be illusion, because you will have secured all his attention. You must secure all his attention."

She blew out a breath. "Do what is needed, then."

He produced a length of soft woven cloth, but as he lifted it to her mouth, she suddenly smiled.

"In order to secure his attention. I'll need to do something . . .significant. . ."

He raised a brow. "Yes?"

Her eyes danced. "I would suggest, gently of course, that you look to your shins."

"My shins?"

"Aye."

He eyed her for a moment, and then he smiled.

"Ah. I see. 'Don't kill the enemy; hobble him'?"

"Something like that. So perhaps it might be well to conjure for yourself a secret layer of armor."

A slow grin stretched his lips. "Why do I feel as though that is one of the more prudent bits of advice I've ever been given?"

She shrugged. "Well, I did vow to speak to you only truth, my lord."

He laughed, and, as they finished arraying themselves for battle, he realized that the fear had ebbed away. Fear, he thought, cannot sustain a foothold in a heart that's girded with laughter.

But nevertheless, when he took her arm to lead her into the battle, the thought of handing her over to the enemy, bound and voiceless, weighed in his mind like a heavy anchor. He could not run lightly through this battle. He must watch, and grit his teeth, and wait.

* * *

A sudden buzz rattled among the wedding guests; behind him, Odin heard Frigga draw in her breath. He turned from his narrow contemplation of the red flash in Gyrd's eye to see his son Theoric stumble through the arched doorway, a small maiden in his grasp. The wedding guests looked up in anticipation when they saw the groom appear, but then a chorus of gasps rose up and a swelling murmur surged through the room, filling it with startled exclamations and titillated mutters. The woman Theoric Gyrdson held by the arm could not possibly be a bride: she was disheveled and pale, and her wrists were bound, and she was straining against his hold, her eyes blazing with hatred and fury over the strip of fabric knotted around her head, stopping her mouth.

Odin's hand closed into a fist: whatever he had been expecting to encounter this evening in the House of Halfdan, it was certainly not this. But Gyrd thrust out an arm, before him, and spoke, his voice filled with a genuine urgency.

"Wait, Allfather. I will bring her before you. She may be . . . very dangerous."

_Dangerous?_

He watched the old man make his way along the longfire, and then scanned the room; he found the young dandy who was Thor in disguise, staring at Theoric, his brow sharply creased. As Odin watched, his eyes slid to another, a portly man with a fulsome beard, leaning casually against a table, and a small, uncertain nod passed between them.

So. The servant. Lady Sif, perhaps? And now the bearded man. Thor's was not the only disguised face in this room. Was the bearded man Loki, then? What game were the three of them playing at?

He turned his eye back to the straining pair in the doorway. As Gyrd approached them, the lady wrenched her arm from Theoric's hand. As he lunged to seize her once more, she whirled, and kicked him, with a cracking thud, in the shin. He doubled over and stumbled backward, clutching at his leg, his eyes and face averted from his father. Gyrd covered the last two strides with a leap, grasping Sigunn's arm. She glared at him, her eyes so fiery that his face blanched with apprehension, but then his jaw firmed, and he shot a glare at his stricken son, who was still crouched over. For a moment, his brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, staring at his son's bent neck. Sigunn's eyes flashed, and she pulled with all her strength against the man's grip. There was a loud rip as the fabric in the sleeve of her tunic tore. The old man's muffled oath broke the room's thick silence.

With a callous shove, he pushed her forward, and then propelled her up the length of the room, past the staring, scandalized gaze of every noble in the Court. Odin watched them come, his eye cold and stern. But he also saw, behind them, the young man Theoric straighten, suddenly healed of Sigunn's crippling blow, and eye the crowd with a fleeting expression of cold, sardonic amusement, though none of them were paying him the slightest regard, so riveted was their attention on the spectacle of the bound maiden. Except for Thor, who was spearing him with a stare that demanded notice. When he caught Theoric's eye, he tilted his head, toward Sigunn in the old man's grasp, and both brows raised, slightly. As Odin watched, Theoric lifted his hand, at his side, and held it palm downward for just a moment.

 _Wait_.

Thor nodded, though Odin could sense his extreme reluctance from across the room.

Odin's eye narrowed. Was Theoric with them, then, or was this a false Theoric, one of them in disguise?

As if he could hear Odin's thoughts, Theoric looked up, and met the Allfather's piercing gaze. He raised his chin, eyes glinting, and then bent the neck with an impudent slowness. One eyelid lowered in what might have been a wink, and then he disappeared with easy grace amongst the whispering crowd.

That, thought Odin, is not Theoric Gyrdson.

Gyrd pulled Sigunn to a stop, and opened his mouth to speak, but Odin lifted his hand, commanding silence. Behind him, he felt Frigga's presence; she was radiating a gently- controlled rage. The bearded man had slid forward, and hovered now at the edge of the dais steps.

"What is the meaning of this? You had best give good reason to bring this gentle maiden before me in such a condition."

Gyrd's voice rang through the hall. "I have done only what was necessary, Allfather. This is no gentle maiden. She is a threat to everyone in this Realm."

"Take care what accusations you make. She is a noble lady. And she has been a loyal companion to the queen."

"Nay, my lord. She is a threat. I tell you, she is no true Asgardian! She is a remnant of an ancient, perilous people, and she wields a terrible weapon. She is a monster whose only purpose is to destroy!"

The crowd exploded into fearful murmurings, some of them backing away, but many more craning their necks to gain a better view of this unlikely monster. Odin's face was stony, and his eye swept over Gyrd's face with open contempt.

"You speak truth," he said, and Gyrd lifted his chin in acknowledgement, crossing his arms over his chest. The crowd's voice trebled, a chorus of exclamations, until Odin quelled them with a cold, hooded glare. When they had stilled, he continued, "But only when you say that this lady is no Asgardian. Your words are twisted, indeed, Halfdanir, if you would would use so dark a word as 'monster' to describe the Victory-Bringer. Unbind her."

Gryd's face blanched. He stammered, "The. . .Victory-Bringer?"

Odin said, voice cold, "Aye. I know well the story of her people. And I have seen her wield the fire! Unbind her. Now!"

Gyrd turned, slowly, to Sigunn, but instead of reaching for her bonds in obedience to the Allfather's command, he stepped back, his face settling into harsh lines. "I dare not, Allfather," he said. "She will unleash the fire upon me."

Behind Odin's shoulder, Frigga said, "I dare."

She stepped down from the dais, her voice thick with contempt. "And you dare a great deal, Gyrd Bragasson, to so humiliate one of my maidens. You will answer for it."

She reached for the strip of cloth binding Sigunn's mouth. Sigunn's eyes were tight with urgent fear, and as the queen pulled the fabric from her lips, she coughed, her hand to her throat, and whispered, "My lady, step back; flee away! He is a . . ."

Gyrd's eyes flared and a blade of ash and smoke appeared in his hand. He slashed out with it like a striking serpent. Frigga stumbled backward with a muffled cry; the bearded man leaped to steady her. And in that moment, Gyrd had lunged forward, and seized Sigunn by the shoulders.

His eyes stared into hers, their pupils pulsing red. He spoke, then, and it was a rasping, deep-chested voice, not in any way the voice of an old man, "Join with me. Now. You must. Join with me, or die."

"No," Sigunn whispered. "I will not."

"You will not die?"

"I will not join with you."

His eyes burned, and suddenly around the old man's body there was a carapace of smoke, an outline of a much larger, broad-shouldered form. The hands that held Sigunn were long-fingered, and tipped with sharp fingernails glowing with heat.

"Live by your own choice, then, and die by it." he said, the grating rasp of his voice filled with something that might almost have been regret, and then the scarlet flare spread throughout his eyes, and flamed like the heart of a banked fire, and the shadowy form encompassing the old man's body grew more distinct, and pulsed with dark energy.

Sigunn gasped, and struggled in his grip, and then stiffened. Her eyes blazed with a brilliant white light, and a corona of flame formed around her body; a steady stream of fire began to untwist itself from her, and wrap itself instead around the indistinct form of the creature who held her.

Only the barest few moments had passed. The crowd of nobles, frozen with shock at the eruption of the fire, began to press backward, stumbling over one another in their urge to flee. The old man's body was obscured by shifting smoke and twining fire; the form imposed over it grew more solid with every passing instant as it absorbed the fire, as it drank it like thirsty ground gulps the rain.

And then, as every eye in the room was welded in horrified fascination on the two figures, outlined in flame, a lithe figure glided forward, the dark-eyed servant. She stepped behind the old man, a dagger in her upraised hand. She flipped it, caught it by the flat of the blade, and with unerring aim, despite the veiling, writhing smoke, brought it down against Gyrd's temple.

He dropped as if felled by an axe, the shadowy figure falling with him. The shadow disappeared, winked out like a blown candle, and the twisting ribbon of fire boiled and curled in agitation. Freed from his grip, Sigunn's body swayed in the shifting currents of flame that encased her. The white flare faded from her eyes. Her head lifted.

And then, there was a fleshy, tearing sound. A slick of blood appeared on the front of Gyrd's tunic as a gaping wound opened above his heart, and, from the wound, a boiling, billowing swirl of gray smoke. For a moment it hovered over him, and then coalesced into a man-shaped form. It drew itself upward, and in less than a moment, it grew and shaped itself, darkened and solidified. The arms, clearly outlined now, reached out for the trailing edges of the fire that still surrounded Sigunn. But with a lurching, desperate movement, she jerked away, and pulled her arms in around herself. The fire gasped, and swayed, and broke into a thousand tiny tongues of flame, and went out.

Sigunn fell to her knees. She growled, "No more. You will take no more from me."

The dark figure inclined its head, in mocking courtesy. "I will take what I please, my lady. But perhaps it will please  _you_  to know that you have given enough. For now."

He stepped away from her, exhaling a gray cloud of smoke that obscured his form; when it dissipated he was clearly there, no longer shadowed and veiled in smoke: an  _eldjotun_ , solid and real, towering over Sigunn's small form, his sharply angled face wreathed in a smile of pure triumph.

"I am pleased," Sigunn said, looking up at him. "You have embodied yourself. And if you are embodied, you can be destroyed."

He laughed. "And who shall destroy me, Lady?"

The noblemen filling the room stumbled back almost as one, scrambling for the door. With a casual, almost negligent gesture, the  _eldjotun_  flung out a bolt of fire, a thin, braided cord of fire, that writhed across the room, over the heads of the terrified courtiers, and wrapped itself around the handles of the open doors. He closed his hand into a fist, pulling it sharply back, and the doors swung shut, the fiery cord coiling itself fast around the latch, denying any exit.

"I'll be requiring all of you to stay, here, this evening," the  _eldjotun_ said.

He turned to face Odin. With a mocking nod, he said, "Hail, Allfather. And farewell. Asgard will soon bow before a greater king."

He lifted one hand, and filled it with a spear, a glowing mockery of Gungnir itself, burning with white heat. Odin, eyes blazing, conjured a dark-edged spear of his own. The  _eldjotun's_ shoulder tensed; he hefted the spear, preparing to hurl it at the Allfather's heart.

"I wouldn't," said a voice, a cold, even voice. "Your battle is with me."

The  _eldjotun_  stiffened. Slowly he turned, the spear exploding into flame. In the midst of the feast hall's floor, beside the burning longfire, stood the figure of Theoric Gyrdson, his hands empty.

The  _eldjotun'_ s eyes narrowed. "Theoric? Do you also wish to die today?"

As his attention shifted, Odin lifted his spear. But suddenly, a hand caught and held his arm. It was Thor. Sif, in her servant's guise, stood beside him.

'No, Father. This is his battle. He knows what he's doing."

"Theoric Gyrdson? If that's truly him, he will die."

Thor shook his head; his features blurred and shifted, and his disguise dropped away as he spoke.

"He won't. Because that isn't Theoric, Father."

The figure in the center of the hall blazed with sudden light, the edges of his armor flaring brilliant green. He bent his head, and when he lifted it again, he was Loki, Prince of Asgard, and in his hand he held a long, dark staff.

The  _eldjotun's_  lips drew back. "You."

Loki's mouth curled, a tiny, sardonic smile. "Indeed I am."

"I have longed to face you, Black Prince."

"Many have," Loki said. "I suspect it's because I am so universally and wholly beloved."

The  _eldjotun_  raised his spear. "You will be wholly dead."

He hurled it, and it split the air with a thunderous roar as it flew. The courtiers, who'd been watching mesmerized, erupted into cries of fear.

Loki spun the staff as he twisted aside, and struck the spear out of the air; the instant the staff touched it, the spear wavered, into an insubstantial curl of smoke. Loki leaned forward, and waved the smoke away with an insolent, careless gesture.

The  _eldjotun_  circled, staring at him. "You've regained your strength, little man. You are more than you were."

Loki raised his chin, watching his movements from under his lowered eyelids. "I am unchained, hulking creature. I am what I have ever been." The humor drained from his eyes, then, and they slid for an instant to Sigunn, who had climbed to her feet.

His voice hardened. "Face me, then, fire prince. Fulfill your heart's desire."

The  _eldjotun_ whirled, clutching another fiery spear, hefting it overhand. His eyes widened, then; the tall figure before him was suddenly two, and then four. All of them tilting their heads, and regarding him with a lifted brow and an insufferable calm. He grimaced in frustration, and hurled the spear; it pierced the torso of the nearest form, which wavered and disappeared in a flash of green light. The three remaining figures shook their heads, and Loki's voice said, "By the time you've deciphered which of us is real, I'll have spitted you with this staff."

With a snarl, the  _eldjotun_  stretched out a hand; the longfire burning in its trough gathered itself into a heap and then rose up in a fiery wave, arching to crash over heads of all three. In an instant, there was only one again, and he swung the black staff. A blast of freezing wind followed the path of its movement. The wind seized the fire in an invisible hand, caging it, forcing it upward in a thin, thrashing column. It flattened the sputtering fire against the ceiling, and then crushed it out of existence with an earsplitting clap. The shutters barring all of the room's tall windows exploded outward in a hail of wooden fragments.

Silence, but for the creaking hinges of broken shutters.

"You are skilled with pretty tricks," the  _eldjotun_  said. "But then, I am, as well."

He swept a hand over the longfire's empty trough, and the fire roared into being again, the flames soaring upward.

"You cannot defeat me." He gestured toward the fire. "We can rain blows on one another; and exchange fire for wind, and trick for illusion, but ultimately I will prevail. I stand alone, unfettered. You are forced to defend not only yourself, but those whom you love."

He turned, and faced the dais, and raised a hand filled with smoke that congealed into a swirling ball of flame. He hefted it. On the dais, Thor stepped in front of Frigga, and Odin raised his spear, eyes intent.

"What of your mother, prince? Your father, powerful though he may be?" He swept a hand over the crowd, "What of these your subjects?" He lowered his gaze, to Sigunn as she stood there, and his voice changed, rasping sharply. "What of the Victory-Bringer? Will you defend all of these? Will you defend her?"

"No," Loki said.

The faces on the dais stared at him; Thor's eyes were stricken with sudden doubt, and Odin's face hardened. But Sigunn smiled, and the  _eldjotun_  saw it, and slowly pivoted to face Loki once more.

"No?"

"She will defend me."

He walked forward, a smile stretching his lips. "What of you,  _eldjotun_? Will you face the battlefire? You who've claimed to love its bearer?"

From her place by the dais, Sigunn stepped carefully around the eldjotun, her eyes, dark and cold, locked with his as she skirted him and came to stand beside Loki.

The  _eldjotun_  circled them, his face contorted into a snarl.

"Wield it then, Idisi maiden! It has already made me strong. If you choose to strike at me, the fire will make me unassailable!"

Loki turned his face away. He wrapped his arms around Sigunn, and leaned his brow against the top of her head. He closed his eyes, and breathed deep.

Sigunn's eyes were glowing, the irises blazing with a pure white light. She lifted her chin, and looked into the fire prince's face, and she said, "Not this fire."

Loki lifted his head; his eyes were no longer green. They gleamed an icy blue, the color of the inner heart of the glacier, the sunken mass of the iceberg, and they were glowing with a cold inner fire.

The  _eldjotun_  looked upon them, and he saw in their eyes his own mortality.

He backed away, one step.

And then he snarled, "So be it!" And he lifted his hands, filling them with the fiery spears. Sigunn raised her arms, and threw back her head, and the battlefire roared into being around her, and Loki with her, with a powerful inrushing bellow as all the air in the room was sucked into the whirling maelstrom.

But the column of fire that surrounded them was not the towering tree of flame. Instead, it flared and crawled along the ceiling's vault, creeping along the beams and forming long graceful stalactites of glistening fire. Cold fire. Flames that leaped and danced and burned with cold. Thin spines of glittering hoarfrost blossomed on the curving arms of the candelabras; the metallic gilding on the walls disappeared under a tapestry of velvety white frost. Enormous feathery curls of ice formed along the floor-tiles, following their engraved lines and then swallowing them completely. The ice reached the longfire burning in the center of the room, its flames reflected in the countless angled faces of the crystals. The frost climbed the sides of the brazen trough, and flowed over the fire itself, and swallowed it as if it were frigid arctic water rather than burning flame. With a gasping sigh, the fire disappeared, leaving the trough filled from brim to brim with sculptured, graceful waves of translucent ice.

Every eye in the hall was fastened on the two figures within the fire, the taller embracing the smaller, her arms upstretched, gleaming like marble in the icy flames. The  _eldjotun's_  face was slack with astonishment.

It was the ice of Jotunheim united with the Idisi battlefire, and to the prince of Muspelheim, it was the many-tongued roar of despair, and death.

And then his face changed, as he, at last, remembered his army. He spun, and conjured a huge bolt of flame. He thrust it out, a roaring missile winging its way across the room; it exploded against the barred doors, and thrust them aside as if they were nothing but intangible air. It curled out into the dark hallway, seeking the hall of the sleeping  _jotnar_ , plunging forward, a blazing meteor.

With a wintry sigh, the battlefire pursued it, and as the  _eldjotun's_  pulsing fire battered down the door of the  _jotnar's_  hall, the icy flames caught it, and pulled it up short, and wrapped themselves around it, and strangled it until it coughed and sputtered, and died a smoky death.

The eldjotun turned. The blue gaze and the white looked upon him dispassionately, and then Sigunn, within the fire, spoke.

"Prince," she said, and her voice echoed strangely. "You have haunted me all my life, and wanted what is mine alone. You have lusted after it, longed for it, coveted it."

He backed away, shaking his head.

"Now," she said, softly. "You shall have it."

He snarled, and spread his hands, conjuring a wall of flame and flinging it forward. She lowered one of her arms, and curled the fingers into a fist, and then flicked them open again, sending the fire upon him.

The icy flames enveloped him, their roar drowning out his own. They coiled around him, and within their embrace, his body bent, and slowed, and stiffened, until it was wholly still, arms outstretched. The flames soared upward, and twisted and curled their way back to the motherfire; they left behind a blackened figure, a shape formed of frozen smoke, its head thrown back and lips curled in rage. Within the fire, then, Loki's head turned toward the dais, and his blue gaze burned through the smoke, directly into Thor's eyes. He raised a brow.

Thor's eyes blazed with understanding. He thrust out his hand, and summoned the Hammer.

Within the fire, Sigunn's arms dropped. Loki pulled her closer against his chest, and the fire collapsed in on itself with a billowing crash, and filled the hall with white smoke. And then, as it cleared, every face turned to stare at the bent, frozen figure of the  _eldjotun_ prince. For a moment, the hall was silent, the silence of shock and the remnants of battle-rage; then, a tinkling clatter, as a shard of clear ice dropped from the  _eldjotun's_  outstretched arm.

And then the Hammer soared in through the shattered wood of an open window, and slammed into Thor's hand. In the same motion, he whirled, and flung it, and it struck the frozen  _jotun_  squarely in the chest. With a thunderous, shuddering crack, the figure exploded, into a thousand tiny, frozen pieces; they rained down upon the floor in a hail of crystal-edged, glittering fragments, each one a testament to the power of frost and flame.

Thor looked over at Loki.

"You were correct, my brother," he said. "I did, indeed, know the right moment to strike."

* * *


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The justice of Asgard; and a crown of oak leaves . . .

_**Storm's Eye** _

_**Part 20/20** _

_Within the city of Asgard, and, later, the field of Ida . . ._

A tremor shook Sigunn's body, vibrating through Loki's chest; when she lifted her head, he said, low, "Are you well?" Memory assaulted him with a vision of the Victory-Bringer on the mountain-top, eyes empty, the fire gone from her, collapsing in silence into his arms.

She nodded. "I am. It was more than my strength that wielded the fire, just now." A tinge of wonder colored her voice. "It was you, with me."

"Yes." Dull heaviness dragged at his arms and hung from his shoulders, as if his cloak were woven from threads of  _uru_. With an effort, he lifted his eyes from her face to contemplate the spray of glittering fragments that littered the floor around them, the last remnants of an  _eldjotun_  prince.

"It takes no great stretch of imagination," he said, "to foresee the howls of rage echoing throughout Muspelheim, when Surtur hears this certain piece of news." An ironic smile curled the corner of his mouth. "It is a foul draught to swallow, for a villain, when his long-laid plans come to naught."

She laid a hand on his chest, palm over his heart. "Let's drink the cup of victory instead. I think . . . it tastes like freedom."

He swallowed, his eyes lightening. "Freedom . . ." He reached within himself, let the dark energy hum along his nerves, felt it flow around the ashen weariness the fire had left behind, and wash it away. He plunged his hands deep into the well of power, and gloried in it. He could scatter stars across the ceiling of this room, he could create a thousand images of himself and place one on every tower in Asgard, he could conjure up a crown of oak leaves, red with the first touch of frost, and settle it on Sigunn's head.

He settled instead for letting out a breath of laughter, and with it a single word: "Yes . . ."

But then his gaze shifted, to find the eyes of his family upon him: Thor, his face light, Frigga, her hand to her breast, her whole body bent toward him, and then Odin, a brow raised, questioning. And when he met the Allfather's eye, the laughter died on his lips. A muscle moved tightly along his jaw, and she felt the sudden tension in his body.

"For now," he said.

She followed his gaze, and then she looked back up into his face, shock widening her eyes. "For now? But surely he would not . . . He can not! You have more than proven your loyalty! You have faced down an  _eldjotun_  prince for Asgard."

"'For Asgard'? It was for Asgard that he chained me. Who is to say he will not seek to do so again?" He lifted a hand and pushed back an errant lock of hair that had fallen across her brow. "And I did not face the  _eldjotun_  for Asgard. I did that for you."

Around them the courtiers milled and stumbled, gathering in knots to exclaim and question, partners separated by the chaos anxiously seeking one another in the swirling tide of people. But despite the confusion, a large, careful open space maintained itself around the two figures, one in black armor, one in a torn, green tunic. Loki released her, and stood, chin raised, eyes hooded, as the queen stepped down from the dais, and ran to him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"Loki," she said, as she cupped his chin with trembling hands. "My son. You are unchained!"

He looked down at her, and then, his movement stiff and uncertain, he slipped his arms around her and drew her into a careful embrace. Over her shoulder, he saw Sigunn smile, and mouth silently, "Someone else rejoices."

But then, as Frigga stepped back, he looked past her smiling face. The Allfather gazed at his younger son, and found the eyes of a stranger regarding him, cold and very wary. His jaw tightened, and an old sorrow darkened his eye.

Nevertheless, he reached for a smile, and said, "Hail, my son. You've done great deeds this day."

"They are the deeds of the Victory-Bringer."

When Odin's attention shifted to her, Sigunn bent the neck, and then raised her eyes to him, a faint challenge glowing in their depths. "The deeds of  _jotun_  and Idisi," she said.

Odin nodded, his eye inscrutable. "So they are. And so they shall be rewarded. For the Victory-Bringer has done more this day than merely defeat the enemy."

* * *

The doors to the Throne Room swept aside at his touch, and he strode in, the thud of his boot heels echoing through the empty space. The Hlidskjalf glittered in the sunlight as it spilled down in an endless fall into the room, and below it, on the expansive dais, the braziers were lit, and brightly burning. Beside one of them, his hands behind his back, stood Odin, Allfather, and beside him, red cloak glowing, Thor, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

At the foot of the lower stairs, Loki pulled himself upright, the straightness of his spine an ever-so-slight mockery of a warrior come to stand before his king. The silence stretched, until he said, finally, "You sent for me?"

Odin descended to him, saying slowly, "Nearly three days have passed since the events in the House of Halfdan."

"Indeed they have."

"And today we pass judgement on that House."

"You do, at least."

"And so I had hoped that you would come to me of your own choice. For there are words to be said between us."

"Are there?" Loki shifted his stance, and let his eyes sweep over the magnificent room, his gaze lingering for a moment on Thor, brow creasing, before coming to rest once more on Odin's face. "I have no words for you, Allfather."

Odin's jaw set sternly, but he allowed this to pass, and said instead, "The  _eldjotnar_  army can only have entered this Realm through a portal opened by Surtur himself. I have put upon him a certain amount of . . . shall we say, diplomatic pressure? I believe he will reveal its location. But it will take a great deal of power to open it."

Loki said nothing, his watchful eyes intent upon the Allfather's face. On the dais above, Thor crossed his arms over his chest.

"Why would you seek to open it, Father?" he asked.

Odin slanted a glance up at him. "My purposes will become clear."

He turned back, lifting one hand and tapping the fingers against his chin, his eye weighing Loki intently. "Together, Loki, you and I can break it asunder. Are you willing to aid me in this task?"

"Now that I am unchained?" A subtle, sharp challenge colored Loki's voice.

"Aye."

"And if refuse, will I stay that way? If I fail this test?"

Odin frowned. "Test?"

"Surely you are recalling, even now, the last time we stood alone in this room, you and I."

He could feel the fear, half memory and half new and green, rippling up his spine, crawling over his shoulders, trailing its cold fingers over the nape of his neck. He controlled it with fierce effort, but he could not prevent his mind from unrolling that day before him, the feet of his memory dragging reluctantly down that path.

"Have you forgotten, Allfather? The day you wrapped me in those chains? What a fine spectacle I made that day."

Above them, Thor winced at the ice in his voice. Odin said, voice low, "My memory of that day is just as clear, my son. And just as bitter."

For a moment, Loki's mouth dropped open; he drew breath, his chest filling now with a sudden storm of words. "Just as bitter. . . I beg to differ, Allfather. Was it you who hung for nine sunrounds on the Tree? Was it you who willingly offered up the blood-guilt, drop by drop? Was it you who bore the mocking stares of all of Asgard's worthy citizens as you hung there? Was it you, muzzled, bound, muscled through the city streets by one who would still, after all of that, term himself  _brother?"_

His eyes speared Thor, whose whole body stiffened. He came down the steps to stand behind his father, his eyes glittering with pained memory, and opened his mouth to speak, but the flood of Loki's words swept onward.

 _"_ And then, oh, yes, then, was it you who stood in this room, cleansed and dressed in fine new armor, prepared to once again offer yourself, a stripped sacrifice, before all of Asgard's eyes and swear an oath of loyalty, like some duly humbled prisoner of war? Was that you?"

Odin held up a hand to stem the tide. "No, Loki. Neither was it I who sent the Destroyer to smite that one who calls you brother. Neither was it I who sought to . . ."

He took a breath, stopping his own words with an outrushing sigh. "But you know your own deeds."

Loki's eyes flashed. "Oh, never doubt that I do. And I have paid the price for them. I stood here in this room. Just like this. Crippled from the Tree, ready to swear the humiliating Oath, to do as you required. But that was still not sufficient, was it? So you summoned me, here, alone, and cast the venomed chains around my bloodied back! Just like this . . ."

His face changed, and a muscle trembled in his tight jaw.

Odin gave a wordless exclamation, low in his throat, and stepped forward. "No, Loki, I have not called you here for that . . ."

Loki spun away, unheeding; he did not see Thor reach out a hand. His voice rumbled from deep within his chest. "And here I am again. Dressed as before in fine armor, oh, but, this time, even better! For now you have your son and heir to bear you witness and this time a court of judgement is at hand-what a fitting occasion to once more chain me up. For Asgard! Always, for Asgard! And if I will not aid you in safeguarding Asgard, if you cannot make  _use_  of me, then let the chains be brought anew! That is your will!"

"No!" Odin thundered. "Aid me or no, that choice is yours! There is no test! I did not summon you here to chain you! And it was never my will!"

A breath rattled up through Loki's throat, and then he turned, and regarded Odin with dark, shuttered eyes. Odin gazed back at him, and then he spread his hands and repeated, "It was never my will."

"How can you speak so?" Loki said, finally.

"Did you not wonder, when Thor returned, bearing both you and the Tessaract, why Thanos did not pursue?"

"I was certain he was dissuaded by the might of Asgard." Loki said; he bent in a mocking bow.

"No," Odin said. "He assembled his forces, a great host, and threatened to bring them against our borders at once."

"What?" Thor turned to his father, his eyes widening in amazement. "Thanos purposed to march on Asgard?"

"And yet he did not." A glimmer of understanding flared in Loki's eyes. "Because you arranged a parley? Yes, you did, didn't you? And at this parley you had long words with the Mad Titan, about the actions of your mad son . . ."

"Not a parley. A bargain." Odin's face was drawn with pain. "His bargain."

Thor stared at him. "You  _bargained_  with him?"

Odin's gaze flickered to Thor's face, his eye stern. "I had no other choice before me. These are the burdens of kings."

Rage lit Loki's eyes with a green fire. "Oh, of course! Foolish Loki! A bargain, in which the weak-willed traitor will be chained in such a way that he will destroy himself. How amusing for everyone concerned!"

Odin sighed. "He was amused. Yes. And also willing to remove his armies and the threat of attack, in order to have the pleasure of that amusement."

"And how quickly you leaped at the chance!"

"No, Loki! I despaired! But thousands of our people would have died, and we are not such a great host that we can bear to lose them. It was a bargain, for Asgard."

Loki shook his head, his neck cording. "You could have told me this! I could have helped you devise a better way! For Asgard!"

Pain blazed in Odin's eyes. He said nothing.

And suddenly Loki was still. He lifted his chin, and studied Odin's face, and then said, his voice flat, "But of course you could not tell me. You were not certain that the deaths of Asgard's warriors meant anything to me. A traitor, a criminal, a liar. You went to Thanos alone, and you bargained alone, with the life of your disloyal  _son,_ because he could not be trusted. _"_

Thor's head lowered, his face tight.

Odin reached forward, a hand that trembled slightly, and placed it, slowly, on Loki's shoulder.

"Your deeds, here, and on Midgard . . . You are right, Loki. I did not trust you."

Loki turned his face away, his jaw flexing.

"But," Odin continued, "I have never, from that day to this, lost faith in you."

Thor looked up.

Loki's gaze returned to him, limned with the white-hot edges of simmering pain. "Again I say, how can you speak so? Your actions say otherwise."

"I agreed to Thanos' bargain, in the hope that you would not destroy yourself. In the hope that you would . . . return to yourself, and free yourself."

"You knew I could not release myself from those chains!"

"Not from the chains, no. I had no hope of that, until the day that I saw the Idisi maiden with you. But the other chains, Loki . . ."

"Other chains? What others?"

"The anger and the bitterness and the . . . the terrible sorrow that has enslaved you. The bitterness I caused you, Loki. The chains of the spirit that are my fault alone."

Loki whispered, "What?"

"I have failed you. For all the long years of your youth, I did not allow myself to see the scars on your spirit. I kept from you your true heritage, and the strength that knowledge might have given you. And on the bifrost . . ." he paused, his eye glazed with the horror of the memory. "On the bifrost, I let you fall."

His shoulders rose and settled in a long breath.

"I let you fall. I should have leaped from the bridge, and followed you into the void."

Thor murmured, his eyes wet. "As should I."

Loki's head lifted to stare at him, unseeing, and then shifted to look back at Odin. The words fell on his ears, and rumbled through the corridors of his mind in strange echoing patterns. He heard, as from a far, faint distance, Odin's voice ask, "And have you freed yourself, Loki, son of Odin?"

Slowly, Loki stepped back, so that Odin's grip fell away from his shoulder.

He said, "Scars never truly fade."

Odin closed his eye, his face filled with sorrow. Thor made a low, voiceless noise, deep in his throat.

"But," Loki said, "Pain does. Pain lives in the fortresses of the past, and a man can leave those behind, if he chooses, and walk unburdened, and bear his scars in freedom."

"As Odinson?"

His eye was fixed on Loki, filled with a fierce hope.

Loki shook his head. "No. But as Prince of Asgard."

"You will claim the place and title of Prince, but not the name of Odinson?"

Loki lifted his chin. "This surprises you?"

A glint of humor flickered in Odin's eye, edging away the sorrow. "No, it does not. It is the sort of thing that only you would attempt."

Odin waited a moment, for him to relent, but he did not. Neither did he look upon Odin with cold, inscrutable eyes. In the green gaze, Odin saw his son, whether by name or no.

"So then,  _neinn_ Odinson, Prince of Asgard, Loki unchained, will you go with me and lend your power to the breaking of the portal? Will you accompany your father?"

Loki shook his head. "No. But I will accompany you . . . my king."

Just then the doors were flung open, and a double line of the Guard marched in, cloaks flowing, spears held at ready. They arranged themselves on either side of the room's central floor, and behind them, the courtiers and nobles of Asgard began to gather, flowing through the open doorways in a tide of rich clothing and anxious, tightly-edged voices. The events in the House of Halfdan shadowed every face, and every eye gleamed with equal measure curiosity and dread. Today Odin would pronounce judgement on one of their own.

With a final glance at Loki's face, Odin mounted the steps once more, to stand below the Hlidsjkalf and survey the gathering Court. Loki remained where he was, eyes on the floor, face abstracted and still. He felt rather than saw Thor come and linger by his side.

When at last he looked up, Thor said, "I wish that I had known."

"Of?"

"All of it. The bargain with Thanos. The scars you were carrying. The truth of your birth."

Loki stretched out his hand; for a moment the throne room of Odin fell away and he stood once more in Jotunheim, his wrist in the grip of a frost giant, his heart seizing in horror as he watched his own hand turn an alien blue. He blinked the vision away, and raised bleak eyes to Thor's face. "And would you have welcomed that, Thor? Rising up through the years of your youth with a  _jotun_ by your side?"

"It wouldn't have been a  _jotun_ , Loki. It would have been you."

"They are one and the same."

"Yes. Exactly."

And then, as the meaning of Thor's words sank into the deep, locked corner of his heart, he said, eyes slowly warming. "You wouldn't have been so eager, then, to slay them all?"

Thor laughed, though the humor was laced, all through, with regret and the heavy weight of after-knowledge. "No. And, like Father said of you, just now, I would have been the stronger for it."

At the rear of the room, the heavy door closed with a ponderous clang. As the room quieted, the side door nearest the throne opened silently, and the queen slipped inside, and beside her, a small figure that drew every eye: too small, too gentle-seeming, to warrant the sweeping stir of muttered warnings and worried frowns that greeted her appearance.

Loki smiled when he saw her. She was attired in glowing red, a walking flame, a deliberate challenge to those who would choose to fear her. No longer the insipid silver gown for the Victory-Bringer.

Odin stood below the Seat, and raised his hand.

"This is a day for rejoicing," he said, allowing his voice to fill the room and quiet the murmuring of the shifting crowd. "A great enemy has been defeated."

The murmur swelled again, for a moment, and then fell as he continued, "And treachery in the Realm has been exposed, and will be punished."

He nodded toward one of the side doors, where Fandral the swordsman waited, his hand upon the hilt of his blade.

"Bring them."

The door opened, and through it walked Gyrd Bragason, and Theoric his son, escorted by the warrior maiden Sif, her eyes cold. The old man walked slowly, the heavy bandage binding the wound over his heart clearly visible under his thin tunic. He held his head high, and glared, eyes forward, while Theoric walked with his gaze upon the floor. Fandral preceded them, and when they stood at the bottom of the throne's lower steps, he bowed, fist to chest, and said, "The House of Halfdan, Allfather."

Odin studied them, in heavy silence. Theoric's eyes flickered up at him, and then, away, at once, and settled on Sigunn, as she stood, alone. She held his gaze, unflinching, until he looked away.

"You sought to seat another king upon the throne of this Realm?" Odin's voice was low, but it filled the room.

The old man licked cracked lips. Defiantly he said, "I sought to advance my House. It is an ancient and honorable desire."

"Your idea of honor is sorely tarnished. You have committed the highest treason."

"There is no treason in serving one's own House first!"

"But treason indeed in offering aid and succor to the enemies of Asgard. And since you give your loyalty so earnestly to another king, you shall have your reward of him."

"What reward?" Gyrd's face stiffened.

"Surtur has no desire to challenge Asgard in open battle. And neither do I wish to merely butcher his sleeping army. So we have reached a compromise, between kings. Under the banner of truce, we shall march his warriors back to the portal from whence they came, and Prince Loki and I will wrench it open, and send them back to their own Realm."

He glanced at Loki, who lifted his chin, ignoring the mutter that rumbled through the watching courtiers. Then he continued, his eye cold. "And when they return to their lord and master, you, Gyrd Bragason, you and your son, will go with them."

Gyrd's face crumpled, with equal parts terror and rage. "You cannot send us to Muspelheim. There we will surely die at Surtur's hand!"

Odin shook his head, his face inscrutable. "If you are not immune to the bite, you should not lie down with the wolf."

He nodded at Sif. "For now, Lady Sif, convey them to the lower prison."

Sif stepped forward, offering the royal salute, fist to chest, first to Odin, and then, after a moment, she turned and tendered it to Loki, as well.

When he raised a brow, startled, she said, "It was a battle well-fought, my lord." And the title slipped off her tongue easily, as if it had not been absent for many months of days.

Loki said, glancing from her to Fandral, who inclined his head, "It was a game well-played. By all of . . . us." And the word did not slip easily off his tongue, but it came, nonetheless.

They nodded, and Sif turned to her task, her face hardening. But as she took a firm grip on the old man's arm, to lead the prisoners away, a voice stopped her.

"Wait."

Sigunn stepped forward to stand before the old man. He stared down at the floor, but then, with a scornful shrug, he straightened and looked down his nose at her.

"You were never worthy to bloom as a bride in the House of Halfdan," he sneered.

"No. I did not aspire to that honor, but I accepted it, for a while. Since you deem me unworthy, release me now."

Odin stirred on the dais, uneasily; from her place at the foot of the steps, Frigga said, "My dear, surely the pledge is a dead thing. A pledge given to a traitor is moot."

"Yes, I know that, my lady. And my father, for his part, has already broken the pledge. But I have been in thrall to this man all my life, and I will hear him say the words." She turned back to Gyrd, and took one step nearer, her eyes implacable.

"Say them, then, Halfdanir. Release me. Say the words."

He glared at her, and then at the rest of them, their eyes boring down upon him, the faces grim. The room was completely silent. Loki's hands had curled into fists.

Finally, he snarled, in an angry hiss, "So be it. If such empty words will content you, the pledge is no more. You are free."

"They do content me. They are the last words I will ever hear from you, and they are sweet."

Then she looked at Theoric, and waited until, at last, he dragged his eyes upward to meet hers. She said, "You did all this for honor, Theoric Gyrdson. May your honor be enough to comfort you in the days to come."

She turned away, and did not look back as Sif and Fandral led them from the room.

Odin beckoned her, then, and said, "You are the last of your people, and you have done Asgard great service. What reward can I offer you, Sigunn Vidardottir?"

"I am free. I need no reward, Allfather. Except . . ."

He waited, brow raised.

Slowly, she said, "Except that I ask to be free as well from the father who betrayed me. I would be no longer Vidardottir. Let me be instead . . . Sigunn Enginnrdottir."

No one's daughter.

He frowned. "Are you certain that is what you wish?

When she nodded, he sighed, his eye flickering, for just a moment, to Loki's face.

"So be it." He raised his voice, and the Court stirred expectantly. "Thus justice has been served in Asgard. As it has always been, may it ever be."

The room dissolved into a thronging sea of babbling talk. Thor climbed the steps to stand beside his father; Odin's eye was fixed on Sigunn as she walked away.

"The Victory-Bringer," he murmured. "She will be one of our greatest assets. It is our good fortune that the battlefire fell to Asgard and not some other Realm."

Thor looked at him, startled. "The battlefire is not Asgard's, father. It is Sigunn's, alone."

Odin returned his gaze. "Well, then, we shall duly hope that, if the time comes, she will choose to wield it . . . for Asgard."

* * *

When the court adjourned, she walked, straight-backed, through the turbulent throng, toward the farthest doors. They gave way before her, edging carefully away as she approached, and eddying in her wake, flicking sidelong glances at her back. But as she neared the doors, a tall figure blocked her way, and she looked up into Loki's eyes. He lifted his chin, regarding her with a transparent warmth that she knew he allowed very few others to see. The sadness faded from her face.

"Enginnrdottir?" he murmured.

She sighed.

"How can I give honor to a father who sold me into death? Who committed such treason against his king and his own family? I have no name, now."

He stood back, one finger tracing an uncertain pattern into the palm of his other hand. His eyes intent, he said, "I would give you a name, Sigunn. To stand beside your own. If it would please you. If you would wish it."

"Would you? Well, I am in need of one. I cannot even claim 'gentle Sigunn', any longer." She waved a hand out toward the courtier-filled room. "They will no longer sing of me that way in Asgard."

"They do not know you as I do. But no, not "gentle"."

"Ah. Perhaps I need to ride further afield? Let me see . . ." She cast her eyes toward the ceiling. "'Fire-breather'? 'Troll-slayer'? 'Bane of giants' . . ." She pointed a finger at his chest. "Always excepting yourself, of course . . ."

" _Kona_."

He reached up and captured her hand, his thumb sliding lightly across her fingers.

Her breath caught, and the jesting light left her eyes. Her lips parted.

When she made no answer, he spoke again, a faint anxious line appearing between his brows, " _Konu Loki._ "

Loki's wife.

The throne room, the city, the entire Realm held silence around her, and contracted to just the vision of his face.

He continued, "Although every soul in Asgard will no doubt think you mad to share bed and hearth with the  _jotun_  prince."

"They do not know you as I do. And will they not think you just as mad, to open your arms to the Victory-Bringer?"

He shrugged. "Madness runs in my veins." His voice lowered, and his grip on her hand tightened. "You would . . . do this, then? You would desire this?"

She took a step nearer. "I would. I do desire it. And do you?"

He did not answer at once. He closed the small gap between them, and looked down into her face, and said, in the runespeech, the ancient words dropping from his tongue like molten silver, " _Ek elska thik_. . . "

_I cherish thee,_

_And I would wed with thee,_

_And never be parted from thee,_

_Until the world ends._

She smiled and whispered the final words of the stave. " _Thar til heimurinn endar, ok byrjar nytt_."

_Until the world ends,_

_And begins new._

And she added, quietly, " _Asta._ "

She slipped both arms around his neck, drawing herself up against him. He grinned at her, and tilted his head out toward the cavernous room. Courtiers and nobles of every stripe still filled it, milling about exclaiming and muttering over the events that had just passed. More than a few curious glances were leveled their way.

"Don't you observe the proprieties, my lady?" he murmured, his eyes alight.

"Oh, come now, Loki, Prince of the Realm! Surely the censure of a few courtiers holds no terrors for you?" She widened her eyes in mock consternation, struggling to hide her smile. "Aren't you ever willing to . . . take a risk?"

His arms closed around her, and as he bent his head to her he said, "You have no idea."

"I rather think I do," she laughed, and he took her laughter into his mouth, and tasted it on her lips, and kissed her, very thoroughly, before all the court of Asgard.

* * *

And so, at the rise of the next new moon, the nobles gathered in the great feast hall, to see the second prince, resplendent in armor of black and gold, stand beneath the bower of fir boughs and acorn-laden oak. They watched the Idisi maiden come to him, walking with slow, graceful strides the length of the hall, her hair spilling down her back in fiery waves, bound at her temples with a bridal crown. They saw him offer her a blade, across his forearm, a ring of bright gold resting on its hilt, and the courtiers exchanged glances and frowns, for the blade was not the sword of long tradition, but a slim bronze dagger, fashioned in the shape of a horse's head. Only those standing closer to the bower observed the smile that hovered on the bride's lips when she saw it, and the answering flash in the prince's eyes.

The crown prince Thor remained at her elbow in his role as _fastnandi_  for this maiden, since, as enginnrdottir, she had no father to stand guardian for her, though her sisters were clustered to one side, wide-eyed and rather pale. Only he heard Loki's words as she accepted the dagger from his hands.

"Let fly."

And, later, as the feast commenced and the music swirled and the bawdy jests filled the hall with clouds of laughter, they watched her bear to him the  _kasa_ cup _,_ its wide bowl filled to the brim with sweet purple wine, and listened as she said the old words, satisfied that at least one thing about this wedding was firmly anchored in tradition.

_Wine I bring thee, my oak-of-battle,_

_With strength blended and brightest honor;_

_With honed blades and mighty songs,_

_With runes of past and future blest._

But some of them frowned, still, leaning forward to see her better, for as she lifted the cup, the sleeves of her rich gown slid back, and the light caught and fractured on the symbol embroidered along the hems in bright silver thread: a strange symbol, a flame encased in crystals of ice.

The prince saw it, too, and smiled.

* * *

In his last duty as  _fastnandi_ , Thor placed Sigunn's hand in Loki's, and bound their wrists together with a silken cord. He raised their arms, so all could see, and then gave a sharp tug. The cord held; it was a true marriage bond, and a lusty cheer rose from every throat in the room.

As he unwound it, then, he paused, and touched one of the embroidered symbols along Sigunn's sleeve.

"I've never seen this before."

"No, it's newly made," she said, looking past him to meet her husband's gaze. "The sigil of the House of Loki."

A flash of pain glinted in Thor's eyes. Slowly, he said, "So then Loki has departed forever the House of Odin? He will never reclaim his name?"

She reached up and lay her hand along his cheek. He peered, startled, into her dark eyes, and took solace in the compassion there, as she said, warmly, "Dear brother. Do you not understand? Loki's name is his own."

He pushed the momentary sorrow away, back into the past, where it belonged. He smiled down at her, and said, "Do you call me brother, Lady?"

"I do."

It wasn't Sigunn who answered. Thor turned, and found Loki there, his arm extended, palm out. His heart thudded, a sharp, incredulous beat. Slowly, he reached out, and grasped his brother's forearm, staring into the green eyes. He saw, not his brother of old, for he knew that that boy was gone forever, but instead this man, his brother, a deeper, stranger creature, who was, nevertheless, in this moment, very familiar indeed.

He blinked back the sudden dampness in his eyes, and said, "It's good to see you wearing the green once more."

From Loki's shoulders, a long green cloak hung suspended. But, as Thor studied it more closely, he realized that it, too, was new. Not quite the same as before, a warmer, brighter green: a green that glowed as if lit by fire.

His eyes met Loki's again, and Loki lifted one brow, over an eye that flashed with mischief.

"Haven't I always?"

* * *

On the crest of a knoll, the stallion Bruni lowered his head to bury his nose in the deep grass, pointedly ignoring Hrafn, who stood, ears pricked toward the city; his keen hearing could discern the faint sounds of a raucous feast wafting out from the palace's high towers.

Their saddles were empty.

Behind them, the ground angled downward, into a hollow cupped secretly among the folds and rumpled hills of Ida's green field. Its sloping sides were carpeted with woodruff and clumps of eglantine, filling the night with their sweet, green odor. Here and there, among the tufts of grass, a constellation of small lanterns glowed, mirroring the infinite display splashed through the sky above, framed by the hollow's encircling rim. The light reflected faintly on the embroidery ornamenting a rich gown, which lay, abandoned, on a low rock, the filmy length of a delicate shift tossed over it. In the grass below lay a disordered tangle of black leather and a thick green cloak.

On the flat floor of the hollow, a deep nest of conjured furs spread like a dark pool. An arm, pale and slim, reached over the edge of this makeshift bed and a hand clasped the stem of a graceful, horn-shaped cup.

As she leaned away, Loki ran his fingertips along the curve of Sigunn's hip, admiring the glow of her skin in the starlight. When she rolled back toward him, and handed him the cup, he said, "I would think that, right about now, the revelers may have divined that the guests of honor have left the feast."

She propped her chin on one hand, the other tracing the gleaming lines of the  _nadr_  that coiled sinuously about his upper arm. "Only just now? Are they all that far gone in merrymaking?"

He tipped the cup back for a leisurely swallow, and then grinned at her over its rim. "The night grows old. They will wish to see the groom remove the bridal crown, and claim the bride as his own, and then shower them with ribaldry."

Wine glistened on his lower lip; she leaned forward and kissed it away, and then after a long, warm moment, levered herself upward with one arm to regard the crown of oak leaves, their fair, gilded tips just visible above the nodding blades of grass. She looked down at him, over her shoulder, and said, "How unfortunate, then, for them, that you have already done that."

He pulled her back down beside him, his hand sliding easily along the small of her back, palm cool on her warm skin, as his lips murmured against her ear, "I've already done both of those things."

She said, "If you include the ribaldry, I think it is fair to say we have done all three." He felt her cheek move as she smiled.

He lifted his head, nodding thoughtfully. "How briskly efficient we are. An example to newly wedded folk in all the Realms."

She shook her head, laughing. "I don't wish to be an example. Let's keep all this to ourselves."

"All this, my lady? All what, may I ask? I'm puzzled as to what you're referencing?"

She arched a brow at him. "Really? And you're usually so clever. It was not so many minutes ago, after all."

He lay back, favoring her with a truly wicked smile. "Perhaps I require . . . a hint?"

She pulled herself atop him, then, stretching her body the length of his, sliding her knee along his thigh, lowering her mouth to kiss the hollow of his throat. His eyes darkened, and ignited, and his arms closed around her as he murmured. "Ah, yes. All of this."

Quite some time later, after he'd followed her hint down a very satisfying trail, they lay, still again, with the soft night breeze stroking its fingertips across their skin. She studied his profile, etched against the lantern light, from her resting place on his shoulder. He was staring up into the pulsing sky; his face was solemn.

He felt her gaze and turned his head.

"What is it?" she asked.

He slid a hand up his bare chest to coil a strand of fiery hair around one finger. Examining it closely, he said, "You told me that you had vowed, once, to deal me only truth."

"Aye."

His eyes met hers. "Do you keep to that vow?"

She leaned up on one forearm, slipping a hand along his neck, her thumb caressing his jaw. "Of course. I will keep it all my days."

He nodded. After a long moment, he said, "That means much to me, Sigunn. Do you know that?"

"I think so. I don't understand all your reasons why it should be so, but . . . "

"You shall understand them." His voice roughened. "I may be the Liesmith, but I will deal you my truths as well. If you wish to hear them?"

"Is there even a need to ask? Tell them, Silvertongue. Speak the  _Lokasaga_."

"The  _Lokasaga_?" A breath of laughter escaped him. "I don't know if it deserves so grand a title. But it is a long tale."

"We have time enough. Unless all the revelers at the wedding feast come searching for us . . . "

He reached up and touched her face, the curve of her lower lip, his eyes deep and warm. "It's not a pretty story."

She kissed his fingertips, and smiled. "The important ones never are."

As she waited, her eyes upon him, slowly, he began, low-voiced, "Thor's coronation. Were you there that day? We stood together, he and I, waiting for the signal to enter the throne room, and I asked him, "Are you nervous, brother?', because of course I knew that he was, and of course he flatly denied it. . ."

And the words of his story filled the hollow, punctuated now and then by Sigunn's gentle voice, as overhead the stars wheeled and burned in Asgard's sky, and, below the rim of the world, the sun climbed toward morning.

* * *

_I am Sigunn, of Asgard, last remnant of a vanquished people, daughter of none._

_And wife to one._

_They sing the songs already, foolish songs of the Lord of Mischief and his Gentle Lady, as if the heart of chaos does not beat with equal vigor in my own breast; as if Loki Prince of Asgard does not harbor, deep within, a soul that looks with gentleness upon the ones he loves._

_I see his eye on me, when the bard in the feast hall lifts his voice and chants the staves. Sometimes I find I must look away, lest I offer great insult to the singer with my open laughter._

_Mischief? Gentleness? Simple, humble attributes, are they not? Let them be noised throughout the Realms; let our enemies mock them and blithely dismiss us as unworthy of their hatred._

_But if they march against us, those enemies, if the Mad Titan makes good his threats, then let them learn to their own destruction what chaos they court if they choose to face us._

_For we walk in the midst of a ring of fire, he and I, a storm of ice that burns the body and flames that freeze the blood, and who can stand before us? Let them come. They don't know who we are._

_Spell-singer, Sky-Treader; Fire-wielder, Battle-changer._

_Lord of Chaos, Silvertongue; Idisi Mother, Victory-Bringer._

_Frost and Flame._

_Loki and Sigunn._

_Each for the other, the eye of the storm._

**FINIS**

* * *

**_Anne LaMott said that "the act of writing turns out to be its own reward", and I find truth in that, but I've also found, in writing fanfiction, that the give-and-take between writer and readers offers a reward just as great. So I thank you, from the bottom of my heart if you'll forgive the cliche, for trusting me with these characters that we know and love, for giving your time to this long story, and for the many expressions of support and encouragement that you have offered me. The twenty weeks I have spent writing this story and posting this story have been a delight. Please do leave a final comment-I'd so love to hear from all of you!_ **

**** **_Much love to you, readers!_ **

**_Rene_ **


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